


Mark of Conciliation

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, BAMF Jon Snow, Drama, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Genderbending, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Politics, R plus L equals J, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Wish Fulfillment, jaime redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-12 10:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: In a world where soul marks are reparations from one House to another, Jaime Lannister cannot, for the life of him, understand why his family was punished on House Stark's behalf. Or where the Kingslayer finds redemption in a Targaryen Princess but neither are aware of that little fact. Soul Marks AU, fem!Jon, slowly-redeemed!Jaime, not-drunk-enough-for-this!Tyrion, Jaime x Lyarra





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime had thought them spared.

He had held his breath for eight years, hoping and praying that Jaehaerys’ Mark, the Curse of the Conciliator, never stained Cersei’s wrist. He had rejoiced when Viserys Targaryen’s fifteenth nameday passed without note and not a single blemish formed on the pale flesh of his twin sister. Neither she nor any other Lannister had gained a dragon tattoo overnight, an indelible mark that the Gods, Old and New, had judged their House and found it wanting. Even his Father had released a breath of relief when seven nights and seven days had passed and none of their own had their fates irrevocably tied to an exiled dragon prince.

Soul marks were an invention of the gods from long before Aegon the Conqueror landed in Westeros but it was not until Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, studied them that their true purpose became known. They were prettily dressed to represent hope and peace between warring families but in truth, Jaime found them to be cursed reparations of ink and magic. It was rare, near-so as tamed shadowcats and direwolves, for them to appear. One selection of each noble house, a son and a daughter to be stained by a mark when the injured party reached his or her fifteenth nameday and tied irrevocably by fate thereafter. Bards could sing of star-crossed lovers and soulmates as they pleased but Jaime had shuddered at the thought of Cersei being forever bound to a madman’s pauper son for their sins.

The memory of Rhaenys and Aegon reminded him that there were many Lannister sins to pay for.

Robert had used the passage of Viserys’ nameday and the lack of any soul marks to viciously crow over the righteousness of his Rebellion. That had only alienated the Martells even further and was probably the reason why no ships from Sunspear were among their fleet. The Greyjoy Rebellion was in its ending days now and, at its conclusion, might even produce another stain to add to the several that popped up after the Rebellion ended. 

The war had ended only eight years ago so the next generation hadn’t grown enough to pay for the sins of their fathers. There was still time for a Lannister or Baratheon to be marked but Jaime was far more confident about their chances now. After all, if Viserys Targaryen wasn’t worthy of divine reparations then how much greater a chance had his younger sister?

The issue of the Gods judgement therefore concluded, Jaime returned his attention to ordering his men and destroying the Iron Fleet. 

Seven years after the Greyjoy Rebellion ended, Jaime Lannister found himself staring at his wrist and regretting his former cheer. He began to mentally curse the Seven, the Old Gods, House Lannister, House Stark, Robert Baratheon, Jaehaerys Targaryen, and anyone else even remotely associated with the situation. For on his flesh, in ink of grey and silver, stained a wolf near shadowed in snow and hail, piercing him with eyes of violet fire.

And the only thought that could possibly form in Jaime Lannister’s head was thus: ‘In the name of the Seven, what in hell had the Lannisters possibly ever done to House Stark?!’ 

x

Lyarra Snow woke up on her fifteenth nameday with the same indifference that she had on any other day of her life. Not because she considered herself too old to celebrate such matters as namedays but because her Lord Father had never been quite certain of when her nameday fell. She had celebrated her fifteenth two moons ago, alongside her elder half-brother Robb, and had been happy enough to receive the swaths of fabric, sewing needles, fresh herbs, and handheld dagger then. All of her gifts were of an entirely practical nature, which Lyarra preferred. 

Lyarra herself was a fairly pragmatic individual. She didn’t share her sister’s dreams, whether for handsome princes to sweep her off her feet like Sansa or adventures in faraway lands like Arya. She was a baseborn daughter that was fortunate enough to be raised and educated alongside her trueborn siblings. Her marriage, though including a modest dowry from her Lord Father, would bring little in the way of influence and leave her entirely to the mercies of her husband. If she could not find a good man to marry her (and truly, her pickings were rare in the modestly-populated Winterfell) then Lady Catelyn would have her enter the Silent Sisters, which, in addition to being a service that did not interest her, involved a faith she did not follow. 

Better than, to learn as many useful skills as she possibly could and venture southwards to find her own fortune. Lyarra had heard tales of bastards- even women!- rising above their humble beginnings to open shops and learn trades of their own in Dorne. She knew how to read and write, manage sums, sew and mend clothing, identify herbs and make poultices, swordplay and even hunt! Surely if there were boys and girls of little marketable skills making their way up the world, Lyarra had talent enough to do the same? With a little starting capital, a lot of hard work, and a dash of luck, Lyarra could make something of herself! She could buy her own land, choose her own name, be more than a bastard…

The dark-haired girl shook her head from side-to-side as they became enraptured by her ambitions again. Alright, so perhaps the tendency to dream was a trait shared by all three sisters…

However fanciful, Lyarra desired, fiercely, with all the passion of the wolf’s blood, to make it reality. It would have been easier had her dowry been released to her but she knew that her Lord Father was too protective to ever entertain those fantasies. Her older brother wasn’t much help either and her other siblings would either disapprove of working around their father (Sansa) or fight against her leaving (the others). Strangely enough, it was Theon Greyjoy who had been most helpful to her either from a desire to rebel in some small way against Lord Stark or because she gave him a cut of her gold to support his manwhore tendencies. Whatever the reason, Theon had loaned her his plainest clothing, snuck her out of the gates, helped her ply her medicines and fresh meat, and even given her advice.

Admittedly, it was the like of “dress up as a man, you’re flat-chested enough to pull it off” and “you hit like a girl so don’t get into bar fights” but he tried.

In return, Lyarra had promised to never reveal that the Ironborn’s rude manners and outlandish boasts hid a kind, admirable young man. Theon had then stomped off with reddened cheeks and her laughter ringing in the air.

Hidden under her bed was a small chest filled with copper pennies and silver stags and even the rare gold dragons. Another year and perhaps a few moons more and Lyarra would have enough. Thinking fondly of the efforts, she considered her tasks for the day.

‘Marla will need another fire swallow mix for her cold. Etna is giving birth next fortnight, a paste for her back and extra dewdrop tinctures to stem the blood-’

She pulled off her shallow dressing gown and shivered in the cold of the dawn.

‘-Shredded alihotsy leaves for Calton’s humors. Grounded willow bark for Jorah’s cough-’

She chose a dress of dark green for the day. It was layered thrice and the skirt easily wrapped around her waist for Ser Rodrik's lessons.

‘I should look into more moon tea then. Honestly, how much service do those whorehouses get?’

Her canvas trousers were rough against bare skin but well worth it for their warmth and protection. A simple wooden comb brushed through long, soft, dark ringlets. Her hair was the one feminine quality she afforded time and effort to.

‘The rabbit traps need to be checked too and I should put some time aside to skin them before- did Arya play a prank on me?’

Lyarra paused in her gestures as her wrist became clear to her. Where once the flesh was milk-skinned and unblemished was now a remarkably well-drawn image of a rearing golden lion casting a shadow. When she looked closer, the shadow took the shame of a dragon with wings outspread. It was far better than Arya’s typical artistic efforts.

‘Hmm, Sansa has the talent but surely she wouldn’t do something as unladylike as prank me… or even acknowledge her bastard sister…’

Not to mention that Lyarra was a light sleeper. Robb mayhap could rest through this but not her.

‘Do I speak to her of this?’ She was reluctant to do so. Sansa may have been ashamed of her but Lyarra’s reluctance was borne of her pain. It hurt. It hurt that the little sister that had freely adored her as a child decided one day to forswear her altogether. ‘I’ll just wash this off then.’

The maids had placed a bowl of cold water to freshen herself by every morning. She went to the basin beside her bed and dipped her hands in it. Yet no matter how much she rubbed, the ink wouldn’t fade.

‘Mayhaps it takes time to fade away?’ 

Lyarra didn’t mind the image overmuch- it was beautiful- and she really didn’t want to face her sister. So she merely allowed her long sleeves to cover the image and went about her day. When she tried to wash off the image at night, it refused to fade again. 

By the second day, Lyarra was starting to become concerned.

By the third, she was looking into the library for means of removing ink stains.

By the fourth, she drew up her courage, took a deep breath, and had Arya question Sansa for her.

“What are you talking about? I never pranked anyone!” 

Sansa having never been one to lie, something about the ability being improper for a gentle and honest Lady such as herself, was believed by her.

“Then who drew on Lyarra’s arm?” Arya did not share such confidence.

“I don’t know but it certainly wasn’t me,” Sansa shot back. She looked over at the loitering Lyarra curiously. “You have a drawing on your arm?”

Lyarra drew her sleeves up. Sansa stared at the lion blankly for a moment. Then she gasped and began to wail, “No! That’s not fair! Why does it get to be you?!”

Her eyes welling up with tears, the redhead pointed at her accusingly. “I’m telling Mother!”

Lyarra and Arya exchanged brief looks as their sister fled to the family corridor. Then the two dark-haired Starks started running down to Lord Stark’s solar. If Lyarra was about to be accused of something she had no understanding of, then she wanted her own side heard first.

Less than half an hour later, Arya and Sansa were being ushered out of the Warden of Winterfell’s solar, as her Lord Father and Lady Stark sat across from her. 

“Lyarra, you need to tell me when this mark came in. Did you share it with anyone?” Her father’s face was even more somber than usual while Lady Stark’s was nearly white in fury.

Fear rising sharply, she hurriedly shook her head. “I discovered this three days ago and only shared it with Sansa and Arya. What does it mean? Is it going to hurt me?”

“No.” Lord Stark’s hand squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “It won’t hurt you but it may change things. You don’t know what this mark means, do you?”

Lyarra shook her head numbly. Honestly, it was surprising that Sansa knew if she did not. Her sister wasn’t dim but they had shared the same lessons and the younger girl had never spent much time in Winterfell’s library. The only areas where she was more proficient was in Southron customs, ladylike behavior and songs of knights and princesses.

“This is a Mark of Jaehaerys and it’s meant to be a… peace treaty of sorts. The Mark of Conciliation is another name given to it and it binds our House and, from that mark, likely the Lannisters.”

‘Jaehaerys’ Mark… why does that sound so familiar?’

“Wasn’t there something about Stannis Baratheon fighting with the Tyrells about a mark?” 

“Yes, that was the most famous case in modern times,” her father smiled wryly, “A mark between Shireen Baratheon and Loras Tyrell over the actions of both Houses in the Rebellion.”

“I… see?” She didn’t.

“It’s a soul mark that binds the son of one House and the daughter of another in order to keep the peace between warring factions,” Catelyn Stark said sharply, “Since it arrived on your fifteenth nameday, it means that House Lannister is to owe reparations to a true daughter of House Stark.”

Her husband looked at her sharply but Catelyn did not back down. “You’ve been claimed then.”

“Claimed?” Lyarra wondered if she meant for it to sound as threatening as it did. “But why would I be- why would House Lannister owe us anything?”

There was a flicker in her father’s eyes before he answered. “I do not claim to understand the Gods.”

“What does being claimed even mean?”

Her stepmother was blunt. “You shall be married for the family’s sake.”

“Married?!” She didn’t care if her voice broke. This- Lyarra never planned for any of this! She was a bastard daughter. Bastard daughters were not married off for anyone’s sake. This was a fate for trueborn daughters who could bring prestige and legitimacy to the position! 

Her father looked away. “Not immediately. You’ve only seen fifteen namedays. I’m sure there will be a courtship period or perhaps-”

His words were lost on her. Fifteen? Fifteen?! Etna was fifteen! She had made ten copper pennies from her pregnancy so far!

“I don’t want to get married.” Not to a stranger. Not a House that her Father had never spoken of favorably or that had somehow wronged her family in someway. 

“You don’t have a choice,” Lady Stark’s cool words were somehow more comforting than her father’s kinder but futile promises. “The Gods have spoken and I will not see you shirk your duty and honor.”

That the third word of the Tully motto was not applied to Lyarra was not lost to her.

“I will need to write to Lord Tywin and learn who your betrothed it to be,” Lord Stark stood up and walked to the door. He made to open it. “Everything will be alright- Arya?”

He opened the door. Sansa and Arya both fell through. 

Lyarra ignored the subsequent scolding to look back down at her soul mark. Suddenly the lion’s pose shifted from prideful to menacing, the colors from vivid to poisonous. Her stomach fell as she considered her future. All of her plans, all of her work, all of her dreams about to be ripped away from her for some foppish golden prat that would look down on her at best. Her fingers clenched into a fist. She felt sick and angry and hopeless all at once and one person was the inevitable target.

Lyarra didn’t care if he was her soul mate, she was going to deck him.

x

‘Be careful what you wish for’ was a lesson that Tywin Lannister was becoming painfully aware of as he stared at his son’s marked wrist. He had desired for years now that his stubborn son be compelled to leave the Kingsguard and take up his position as heir. He had done everything in his power to separate Jaime and Cersei, to smother their unnatural inclinations that he was careful to never fully acknowledge. He had marched beautiful women, one after another, in front of his disinclined progeny in the hope of trueborn grandchildren to inherit the Westerlands.

And now Tywin had gotten what he wished for. Jaime would be forced to step down from the Kingsguard, wed a girl that didn’t share his blood, and, in all likelihood, father a child or two. It just so happened that the future Lady of the Westerlands was a baseborn Northern savage that House Lannister was given as punishment. Or perhaps more accurately, his son was to be awarded to her as reparations though Lord Tywin couldn’t possibly think of a reason why. He had oft fought with Rickard Stark and liked his foolish son little better but House Lannister and House Stark had allied in the Rebellion. For all the distasteful necessities involved, he had done the Starks no wrong. 

Mind the Seven, when Tywin had first seen the Stark direwolf almost invisible on his son’s flesh, he had foolishly thought that it was a jape. His memory of House Stark informed him that while Ned Stark’s eldest had indeed reached his fifteenth nameday, the child was a boy. A male wouldn’t have been marked beside his son and the Stark’s eldest daughter was too young. It took a few minutes to recall that the man had fathered a bastard too and then, Tywin had little choice but to take a deep breath, release it, and pour himself a glass of red wine.

“Cover your mark. Show it to no one else. Leave me now. I need to think alone.”

The first two orders may have been unnecessary. Jaime may not have been as quick-witted as the Imp but he didn’t share the dwarf’s arrogance or Cersei’s shortsightedness. His eldest was son was perceptive, self-assured, and clever enough to know when and of whom to solicit or disregard advice. Perhaps more soft-hearted than Tywin had wanted him to be, Jaime was still not yet naive enough to share this news with his twin. In her temper, she would have sent an assassin after the girl and likely doomed her brother to a short and terribly painful death.

It was not blood-for-blood, mark-for-mark alone that suffered. Throughout history, leaders had sought to prevent soul bound unions by killing the other party or occasionally their own kin. Even if Tywin had been a kinslayer (and he was not; if he could refrain from throwing the Imp into the seas, then he could spare his favored son) he would not have gone this route. A death intended to break a bond suffered backlash to all related parties, had they a hand in the matter or not. Should the Snow girl die of accident or plague or even men wholly unconnected to the Lannisters, his son would be free.

‘And when have I ever been that lucky?’ Tywin took another deep drink. ‘My preferred heir wed to a wench born of a tavern whore- and for what? Me and mine had done no wrong to the Starks. I may have stood aside as the father burned and the son choked but I was hardly the only courtier to still my tongue and look away.’

Perhaps the indignity had been offered by an ancestor of his. Knowing the history of his family and the notorious thin skin and honour of the Starks, Tywin could well accept that explanation. Though it remained a question of why reparations were demanded now and between his son and a bastard of all things. It’s not as though Lady Stark’s fertility had been lacking; six children and two prospective girls were available and Jaime was hardly the only Lannister alive. The eldest trueborn daughter was even a mere three years away from reaching her own fifteenth nameday. 

‘Unless I am merely assuming that my House’s indignity is to the Starks. The father embodies the direwolf well enough but the child was brought over from Dorne. And those violet eyes earned Lady Ashara Dayne praise enough at court.’

He couldn’t recall any significant offense from House Lannister to House Dayne either, though they fought on opposite sides of the war. Perhaps due to Jaime’s slaying of Aerys; though putting down a rabid dog, Tywin believed, should have no such repercussions. Nonetheless, an oath had been broken to both House Targaryen and one of Jaime’s fellow Kingsguard brothers, Ser Arthur Dayne. Did that make it any more fitting for Jaime to bear the mark?

‘Does it matter? The Gods have spoken and there’s little more for me to do.’

There weren’t many options for rejecting one’s soul mark after all. They burned when one attempted circumvent them, whether by words or deed. They prevented the bearer from finding pleasure in another or siring any children and while that may have been acceptable to a celibate Kingsguard, they also tended to be finicky when the bearers didn’t put forth any effort to find their shared mark. Not to mention the scorn of the people should it be revealed that House Lannister was trying to rebuff peace accorded by the Gods…

Tywin removed a fresh sheet of parchment and inkwell from his desk before penning a missive to his younger brother, Kevan. He informed him of his intent to travel North to Winterfell in the utmost secrecy and ordered him to prepare all such necessities for the journey. Then he prepared a letter for the young Warden, accepting his offer to visit the North. Regardless of whether said offer had been extended or not (and since Jaime had received his mark merely three days ago, the Quiet Wolf’s raven should be here by now) Tywin needed to assess the girl. It would be to his fortune if she were to be meek and simple and capable of bearing sons alone. 

‘If nothing else, at least this means Jaime can’t put another bastard in Cersei’s stomach.’

x


	2. Chapter 2

Kevan Lannister hadn’t any significant interest in the letter until he saw the seal of a snarling direwolf pressed into the wax. Putting aside the most recent reports of fishing expeditions from Lannisport, he used his stylized parchment knife to break open the seal and bring it to his eyes. His older brother had left Casterly Rock only yesterday, muttering recriminations under his breath for ineffective lords and belated correspondence all the while, and he couldn’t deny some small measure of curiosity for it all.

The yellow-white parchment revealed a neat letterhead in a sharp writing style lacking excess flourish. 

For the Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock,

I bid you and yours glad tidings on this year and express my hopes for your healthy mind and body in the next. This letter is to address a recent soul bond forming between a member of my House, my daughter, Lyarra Snow, and a son of House Lannister. As my daughter has recently reached her fifteenth nameday…

Kevan read on with increasing disbelief as Lord Stark concisely explained the situation in customarily blunt Northern terms. He glossed over any mention of his daughter but emphatically stated, on two separate paragraphs, that he would gladly forego a bride price for leeway in the marriage terms or a bonding delay. It was also implied, however politely, that his daughter was the injured party in this situation, that he did not trust Lord Tywin in regards to her comfort and happiness, and that he, by which Kevan supposed he meant ‘the North’, would keenly monitor the situation. All of this was concluded by yet another reiteration of his daughter’s youth, followed by Lord Stark’s offer to open a dialogue between them… byway of ravens.

‘Won’t Lord Stark be surprised when Tywin starts knocking down the gates of Winterfell then.’

Kevan leaned back and chuckled a little, as he reflected over the message. It was surprising that his older brother had chosen to attend to the meetings himself rather than sending Kevan or one of the others in his place but he supposed it remained Tywin’s prerogative. Though the implication remained that the soul mark involved an important Lannister son. It couldn’t have been Lancel; Kevan had seen the boy this morning and his wrist was free. Janei and Joy were both girls and while he hadn’t seen Tyrek, the boy wouldn’t have been able to hide the news for this long. That left either Martyn or Wilhelm… which one of his sons was fated to marry a bastard then?

Neither was available at Casterly Rock for him to check their wrists though they were likely pleased to be in King’s Landing and out of the summer heat. Everyone had been sweating under the harsh sun; Tyrion had gone so far to barricade himself in an icy bath with his books for company. It had looked odd then when his other nephew had strode down to breakfast in extended shirtsleeves.

‘Shirtsleeves that hid his wrist…’ 

Kevan shook his head and reread the letter to center himself. No, no he must have been reaching for a conclusion there. It couldn’t possibly be so that his Kingslayer nephew, Tyrion’s favored child, would be fated to marry a baseborn Northern savage. Certainly it was out of custom for Jaime to visit Casterly Rock at this time of year and without previous notification but perhaps he simply missed his family. Or got into a spat with Cersei; the Gods knew that woman could drive any man to flee west. Perhaps he was ill and needed the additional warmth or preferred that style of clothing or-

-or didn’t want to reveal a direwolf symbol on his wrist. That was also an explanation.

‘That would also explain why the Lord of House Lannister is making an arduous journey North to reach an accord with Lord Stark.’

Kevan placed the letter into the pile meant for Tywin’s later review, hesitating over the family-related one before passing on, and then stood up. He had been reviewing documents for long enough and deserved a break of his own. Perhaps he should pick up some flowers from the castle garden and visit his sweet Dorna then.

‘No doubt she’ll lament our own sons having no incentive to give us grandchildren when even the famed Kingslayer is to be married…’ 

x

Thwack!

The first one hit the hay bale dead center, causing strands of straw to float downwards, as it dug into the target. She slides out a second dagger, barely the length of her hand, and angles her wrist downward to get as close to the first as possible. 

Thwack!

The wind moves it slightly off target but it makes another satisfying thump of impact. Lyarra amuses herself by imagining a blonde-haired, green-eyed man in its place.

Tywin Lannister’s raven had arrived just this morning to inform them that he planned to visit and personally negotiate for his eldest son’s betrothal (and likely to judge the goods, Lyarra had thought). She hadn’t been all that happy when the message gave a name to her future husband: Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, twin brother of the Queen, and likely heir to the Warden of the West. Lady Stark had been even less enthused to learn that her husband’s bastard had gone and married one of the most eligible men in Westeros. That was nothing to Sansa’s reaction though; she had burst into tears at the breakfast table before sobbing about how bastards shouldn’t be allowed to wed handsome knights. Then of course, there was the reaction of everyone else.

Arya had gotten into a fight with Sansa on her behalf, which would have been heartwarming if the crux of her argument hadn’t been that Lyarra could marry a dozen knights if she wanted. Bran had spit his water out in shock and Rickon had thought it a game and followed. Robb had started to laugh before winding down to an awkward silence when no one else did so. Theon had gotten very pale and then very red before hurriedly excusing himself from the table. And everyone else watched.

Despite having lost her appetite, Lyarra was forced to sit there for half an hour longer to force down her meal. She determinedly poked air holes into her porridge, feeling the heavy weight of stares on her body and the whispers that spread like wildfire throughout the hall. When she was finally able to leave, she found that the message had spread throughout Winterfell. Servants and guards alike skittered around, looking at her with envy, admiration or greed in their eyes and preceding her path with talks of a bastard’s luck and the Lannister goldmines. Already, one girl had approached her to ask whether or not she had chosen any maidservants for her wedding party. The dark-haired Snow had no idea what she had stammered out in response as she fled the castle.

Lyarra Snow was a bastard. She was Lord Stark’s bastard and therefore, treated politely by the smallfolk of Winterfell but she was still also a bastard. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention!

“At least you don’t care if I marry the Kingslayer or a tenant farmer Hodor.” Lyarra retrieved her blades and then went to pet one of the horses being brushed by the stablehand. “I don’t suppose you want to go south with me to Casterly Rock?”

“Hodor.” The large man shook his head and Lyarra nodded reluctantly. A smile crossed her face when he put a horsehair brush in her own hand and she stepped up to help him. This was certainly the exact kind of simple, relaxing menial task that the Kingslayer wouldn’t want his wife doing. That thought made it far more satisfying to her. 

Lyarra didn’t know how long she had been brushing before the scuffing sounds of a visitor made her look up. With her thin face, dark hair, and wide mist grey eyes, Arya was the picture-perfect image of a Stark girl. Lyarra had always privately attributed that evident heritage as one of the reasons for Sansa’s teasing of ‘Arya Horseface’. Jealousy could be a painful cruelty.

“I knew you would be here! Bran was checking the library but I told him it was too obvious.”

“You knew but you still left him there to search the castle alone?”

“He would stop looking eventually. Besides I wanted to talk to you.” Her little sister dug the point of her boots into the ground. “I’m sorry about egging Sansa. You’re not going to marry a dozen knights.”

A smile spread across her face as brushed off her hands and then ruffled Arya’s hair. The dark-haired girl cringed back and then submitted to the gesture with an overdone huff. “That’s right. One of them will be a dashing lord and another an honourable thief.”

Arya giggled. “A third can be a prideful Septon and the fourth a handsome wilding-”

“-a clever merchant and an exotic pleasure slave from Lys-”

“A fierce Dothraki warlord! A charming bard and- and- Theon!”

“Theon?” Lyarra started to laugh, “Why would I marry Theon?”

“Because he’s madly in love with you, of course,” Arya said matter-of-factly. “He’s a squid, so he can be the daring pirate that kidnaps you from your castle or maybe that’s the wilding’s job…”

But Lyarra had stopped listening to the jape. The amusement in her died as she looked down at her little sister and pondered the words. Theon? In love with her? That was absurd. Theon didn’t fall in love with women. He appreciated their bodies and then moved on. The Greyjoy ward had slept with more women than she had namedays.

“Arya, why do you say that Theon is in love with me?”

“Because he is,” she shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? I mean, he teases you a lot but he’s always offering to help you with your archery skills or whatever. And he’s getting piss drunk with Robb right now.”

“Don’t curse Arya. It’ll become a habit and then your mother will hear you,” Lyarra shook her head. “I can’t deal with this right now. Do you want to go riding?”

Her little sister’s eyes lit up. “Yes!”

Hodor helped them equip two formidable steeds bred from Lady Dustin’s own herd. Arya needed help to sit astride the massive Firewalker with the fine dust red coat but she soon had a command over the horse. Despite her diminutive size, Arya was probably the most talented equestrian in the family, which was why Lyarra allowed her to ride horses of a caliber usually forbidden to the Stark children.

Her own horse was a steady one with a grey and cream coat named Frostbite. Lyarra patted its mane fondly. She had found one member of the House that she was taking south with her.

Lyarra led the way to the gates, gesturing with her hand to let them through. The guards stared at her in the same manner as the servants had inside but they obediently pulled the gate open and soon, the Stark girls were galloping through the forest paths. It was one of those rare perfect spring days in Winterfell, a cloudless blue sky over sun-dappled trees and rich shrubbery in every shade of green. The undergrowth shifted between wood-chipped trails and lime paths of moss. The trails were wide enough for three men to comfortably move through while the narrow twists and turns of the rest meant that Lyarra and Arya took turns leading. 

The Snow child ducked beneath the branches of one heavy tree as a breathless laugh escaped her lips. She used her knees to urge Frostbite on faster, the familiar burn of her thighs and Arya’s swinging braid tantalizingly out of reach drawing out the wolf’s blood in her. There was an even more familiar shout of dismay as Lyarra pushed ahead followed by a triumphant one when Arya slipped by. They continued riding for near a half hour before slowing their steeds down to a fast trot as the pine boughs appeared. Further on would be one of Winterfell’s cold springs as a checkpoint for rest.

When Lyarra swung down from Frostbite, she saw that the brisk wind had pulled half of Arya’s hair out of her tight braid. Her sister pointed to her and laughed. “Your hair looks a fright!”

“A glasshouse is no place for thrown stones, dear sister.” Lyarra helped pulled her down before untying the strip of fabric tying her own hair back. The dark ringlets fell messily around her face contrasting the light pink hue from riding on her cheeks. She repeated the action for her sister, fingers carding through straight brown strands near-identical in color to her own curls.

“I wish I had your hair Lyarra,” Arya said wistfully. 

“You shouldn’t. They’re absolutely horrid in the mornings. Besides your hair frames your face so well.”

“It makes it look thin and long.” The younger girl made a face which did indeed exaggerate her pointed chin and straight nose. “Like a horse.”

“You haven’t grown into your features yet,” Lyarra scowled. “Has Jeyne Poole said anything to you?”

Her sister shrugged, which meant that yes, her last warning hadn’t gotten through the Steward’s daughter. This was something that Lyarra held in contention with both Lady Stark and Sansa. The former never went far enough to stand up for Arya against the scorn of other so-called ladies for her habits and appearance, and Sansa actively put her sister down. Maybe Lady Catelyn assumed that it would compel her to give up her independence but she disagreed with that statement. Arya was no faint-hearted Southron lady; she had the wolf’s blood and it was to her credit, that she was as clever and brave and outspoken as she was. Even the fiercest of little girls could be hurt by such unkind words at this age though and Lyarra did her best to protect her sister from them.

‘Who would do that when I’m not around anymore? Robb tries his best but he doesn’t understand why Arya needs the protection in the first place.’

Lyarra crouched down until her intense violet eyes could meet mist grey orbs. The face it was set on, thin and pinched, could have mirrored her own five years ago. “Arya, do you think I’m ugly?”

The Stark blinked confusedly at the non-sequitur. “No! Of course not, you’re beautiful!”

“Are you sure? Take a close look and think on it deeply. This will be the face you wear in a few years after all.” Lyarra gently traced the nose of the younger girl. “This is my nose, right here. The curve of this smile, the sharp indent above the upper lip. The same skin tone and the shape of the eyes. Here’s the wide forehead; it’ll look far better when your hair grows out. The ears won’t look as big either.”

She rocked back on her heels and smiled brightly. “Those girls may tease you out of jealousy but that doesn’t mean you can’t fight back. We’ll ground down some pecha berries and stain their teeth blue.”

Her sister stared at her silently for a moment and then threw her body forward. “Oomph.”

“I’m going to miss you, Lyarra,” Arya’s voice was muffled in her neck. She squirmed at the moist feeling there. “Stupid lion stealing you away. Bet he’s not even a good knight.”

Her heart nearly melted inside as she returned the hug. “They call him the Kingslayer, you know. Maybe I can convince him to take you on as a squire.”

Arya pulled her face away, hurriedly rubbed her eyes, and then snorted. “Those Southrons are too uppity to let their womenfolk fight. But you’re also going to become the Queen’s good-sister. Do you think Sansa will stop crying when she figures out that you can introduce her to the prince?”

“I don’t even want to think about that.” Baseborn daughter of the Warden of the North to a Lord Paramount heir’s wife? She was suddenly feeling all the more regretful for paying minimal attention to the Septa’s lectures on ladylike behavior. “The only thing I know about him is that he stabbed Aerys Targaryen in the back and that he has a twin sister.”

“And a dwarf for a younger brother. Even I know more about him than you,” Arya grinned. “You know nothing, Lyarra Snow.”

“Then I should probably go back and start tackling this problem head-on. You know what this means.”

“Don’t say it…”

“To the library, sister!”

x 

It was near the Wolf’s Hour when Ned Stark fetched a burning torch and made his way down the crypts of Winterfell. He needn’t go in the solitude of night to visit his ancestors’ graves but this was a habit of his when sleep eluded him. And with the current, seemingly insurmountable issue that had cropped up now, Ned was finding it difficult to get any rest. His other hand held a fully bloomed winter rose that he placed on the statue he saw rarely. Of all his immediate relations, it was Lyanna alone that he had the least need to visit.

If he did not pay his respects to his parents and older brother at least once a moon’s turn, he found the details of their face slipping away from memory. Lyanna’s though was reinforced every day by her daughter and so he could never forget the debt owed to her.

“I don’t know what to do, Lyanna,” Ned told her softly, raising the torch. The sculptor’s work had been excellent but it still lacked the vibrancy of life that her every movement had expressed. “Your daughter is to marry Jaime Lannister. Kingslayer they call him and I am to hand over his Targaryen bride when Tywin reaches the North. He was Aerys’ oldest friend and constant companion. I fear for my niece when he escorts her to the Lannister’s fortress.”

He knew it was just his imagination but Ned could almost feel the palpable concern in the air. Even the dead could acknowledge the wrongness of a lion laying with a dragon-wolf. 

“She’s growing up to show more and more of Rhaegar’s blood. The eyes had always been there but child’s fat is melting like snow to reveal her Valyrian roots.” The Lord Stark smiled, “You would have loved to see her today. She rides the way you do and laughs as freely and moves as swiftly. Somehow or another she convinced me to let her learn to fight beside Robb and now she’s teaching Arya.”

He paused and allowed the quiet contentment in the air to settle him. 

“You should have seen the terrors the two could devise together. Sansa and her friend, Jeyne Poole, refused to speak during the entirety of dinner tonight to risk showing their teeth!”

The humor faded as Ned reflected on the mood of the other at the hall. 

“The Maester tells me that she’s reading of House Lannister and the Westerlands in the library. It is a fine thing to be so dedicated to preparing oneself but the most important piece of knowledge is still lost to her. How can I tell her though, Lyanna? How can I send her away from Winterfell after denying her own identity for all these years, deceiving her as my base born daughter? How can I tell her that the man she is tied to by the gods was an oathbreaker to her own father and grandfather?”

The air felt near charged with the impossibility of the choices before him. Damned if he was and damned if he wasn’t to break a daughter’s faith for the risk of her own husband’s kin. 

Ned’s last words were almost silent. “And yet, how can I not?”

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there’s any concern over Arya acting ‘girlier’ than her canon counterpart, well, that’s because she is. Remember that while Sansa and Arya are near opposites in terms of acting like a lady or learning to fight, the sibling that she looks up to most, Lyarra, balances the two. Canon Arya had only two options available to her: either submit herself to her mother’s Southron teachings or rebel entirely. Lyarra is proof that there can be a middle ground and that wielding a sword doesn’t make you any less feminine or vice versa. Ned’s also more willing to let Arya pursue unladylike habits, including basic swordplay, since she’s more well-behaved and Lyarra’s already done so. Not to mention that Lyarra is even closer to Arya than she is to Robb. They’re both girls, they both have the Stark look, and they’re both rebelling against the tenets of feudal society together. Besides Robb went through a stage shortly after meeting Theon when he decided that playing with girls was icky. 
> 
> And now whenever someone tells her that her tomboyish ways will mean that no man will ever want her, Arya can point to her older sister and be like, ‘You know, she’s married to the KINGSLAYER, right? And that she taught me everything I know?’


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Lyarra received a summons to Lady Stark’s rooms after breakfast. She didn’t look forward to conversing with the older woman, especially with her mental facilities diminished from the lack of sleep last night. With the exception of dinner, she had spent the entirety of her time in the library, attempting to read up on her soul mate’s House and family lands. Then she spent the night shifting restlessly on her bed, tormented by thoughts of callous lion knights and dead dragon babes.

Did she even want to join a family whose claims to fame include dragging a six-year-old from out under her father’s bed and stabbing her half-a-hundred times? 

Well, no, she didn’t want to join another family at all. She wanted to flee to Dorne and apprentice to a bookbinder or become a healer. Marriage was not entirely exclusive to such ambitions but she doubted Jaime Lannister would tolerate a wife with a profession.

‘Maybe persuading me from such ideas is Lady Catelyn’s purpose today.’ Lyarra raised a fist to rap sharply on the door. She wasn’t going to pretend to be any happier to be here than Lady Catelyn would be to have her. She questioned her premise when the door was swung open to reveal a table laden with hot tea and biscuits. 

“Lady Stark,” the Snow child bowed her head slightly and took the seat offered by a negligent wave of her stepmother’s hand. 

Catelyn Stark regarded her with distasteful resignation but that wasn’t uncommon for Lyarra. Her entire existence as a baseborn child that Ned Stark refused to send away or foster elsewhere was an inconvenient truth for the man’s wife. Though it was uncommon for the analytical manner by which those Tully blue eyes studied her before Lady Stark grimaced.

“You will be attending lessons with me every morning from breakfast to the midday meal.”

The dark-haired girl recoiled. ‘Lessons? With Lady Catelyn?!’

“I understand that you may not care to spend any more time with me than demanded by propriety. I assure you that this feeling is mutual,” Lady Catelyn said, anticipating her rejection. “However, you lack the skills, polish, and understanding expected of a nobleman’s wife. This isn’t necessarily your fault. No one expected you to make such an advantageous marriage. A second or third son, a hedge knight or even a common man of high station were all that was expected of you.”

‘Because you are a bastard and no self-respecting man should desire a woman born of sin. Because this marriage should have belonged to Sansa or even Arya, the trueborn daughters of Lord Stark.’ Lyarra smiled tightly at all of the words her stepmother didn’t say. 

“Then you expect to educate me to House Lannister’s standards before Lord Lannister arrives.”

“Don’t be foolish. A few fortnights will not correct fifteen years of fighting, studying, and acting like a man. I regret ever allowing you to attend Robb’s lessons.”

“You’ve never allowed me to do anything. You’ve never cared to involve yourself in my affairs.”

Catelyn placed her cup down and raised an eyebrow. “I never said a word when you wore Greyjoy’s clothing, snuck out of the castle, and plied your medicines in Wintertown. Is that not an allowance?”

The next bite of strawberry tart went down the wrong way. Lyarra coughed forcibly to clear her throat and then took a deep swill of tea. The piping hot liquid scalded her throat. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. Did you think you could sneak around my home and have it escape my eyes?”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” She was utterly bemused. Wouldn’t Lady Catelyn want to suppress any endeavors that could bring shame to House Stark?

“You were hoarding gold to leave Winterfell. Why would I do anything to hinder those efforts?” Her stepmother’s lips quirked upwards in a faint smile. “Our lessons will teach you to maintain your composure. It is of the utmost importance that you learn to comport yourself as soon as possible.”

The dark-haired girl leaned back and tried to recollect her thoughts. “I’ve never-”

“This isn’t a choice,” Lady Catelyn broke in, tone becoming colder. “For a reason beyond my understanding, the Seven chose to bind you to Ser Jaime Lannister. A marriage in your future is inevitable and even should you despise your husband until the day you die, I will not have you stain your father’s honor by making a fool of yourself.”

‘I was born a stain on my father’s honor,’ Lyarra wanted to say. Instead she stiffly nodded and stood up. “I shall see you tomorrow then Lady Stark.”

She tried to pass by the woman when a hand at her wrist caught her. Lyarra looked down to see Tully blue eyes, the exact same shade as all of her siblings save Arya, look directly at her. They held the same determination nominally present in Robb or Bran underscored with an emotion Lady Stark rarely had for her: compassion.

“Do not misunderstand me child,” Catelyn said softly. “You enter a noble family as a bastard to wed one of their most prominent sons. They will find you wanting no matter how you present yourself. The Westerlands hold no friends for you. Not even your husband can be relied upon to protect you. My advice for you is to keep your own counsel, reject gifts freely given and come down with child soon.”

Lyarra’s eyes widened. She knew the duties expected of a wife and perhaps her marriage was moving years ahead of when she expected but children?

“A child will cement your place by your husband’s side. It will give you bargaining power in your good-father’s home and added protection from the other lions,” Catelyn explained briskly. “Perhaps more importantly, it will give you someone whom you can love freely. Women who cannot find happiness in their husband or marriage bed do so in their children.”

“I- I see,” Lyarra swallowed thickly. “Please excuse me. I need… to have a walk.”

She was almost to the door when her stepmother’s voice stopped her again. It was with great trepidation that Lyarra turned to her, fearing the next advice to come from her lips.

“Lyarra,” Lady Catelyn appeared conflicted for a moment, “I have no great affection for you, that is true. But rest assured that I will do all in my power to prepare you for this. Regardless of my feelings, I will not allow a daughter of Ned’s to step into the lion’s den unarmed.”

x

Tyrion Lannister was in excellent spirits at the moment. While fully nude in a tub of freezing water, he was accompanied by a half dozen books on engaging topics, three bottles worth of Arbour Gold, and a giant bowl of lemon shaved ice. Adding to his pleasure was the knowledge that his father wasn’t presently home and that Cersei must be steaming at King’s Landing now that Jaime had, for some reason, been recalled home. The Imp was interested in the reason why and planned to pry the truth from his brother eventually but he was too content now to bother.

Trust his family to ruin even this little oasis of peace that he had carved out. 

Though as the wooden door clanged against the stone wall and Jaime staggered in with unsteady footsteps, ignoring his entirely manly screech of surprise, Tyrion supposed that his brother needed it.

“By the gods, don’t you have the decency to knock?!” Tyrion swiftly closed his legs together and covered his chest with his arms. Yes, he spent most of his free time cavorting with whores but Jaime was not an attractive, naked woman! “Are you drunk?”

“Not nearly enough,” his golden brother, both literally and figuratively, informed him. Jaime swiped one of the unopened bottles of wine and brought it up to his lips. “Cersei’s going to kill me.”

“Welcome to the club,” the dwarf sniped back, glowering at the loss of alcohol. “What did you do to earn our darling sister’s ire?”

Jaime plopped down on the floor, used his sleeve to wipe off the wine droplets clinging to his mouth, and then bared his wrist. The Imp spent a full ten seconds blinking dumbly at the violet-eyed white wolf. “Did you draw this? Is this a jape? Don’t pain me by lying brother.”

“I’m to marry Ned Stark’s bastard,” Jaime hiccuped. “Child. Bastard child. I’m going to marry a child.”

The weight of his words hit Tyrion all at once and suddenly he was grinning so widely that his molars began to hurt. By the Gods, Cersei was going to be furious. This news alone was worth all of the wine in Casterly Rock. It was even better than his last ten namedays put together!

“You have my most heartfelt congratulations. Is she pretty?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met her. I don’t even know her name.” The Kingslayer put his face in his hands. “Cersei will be so angry.”

“I know! I love my new good sister already!” Tyrion declared. “We must share this good news with the King and Queen, brother. Why, I’ll volunteer to deliver the news myself!”

The Kingslayer paled. “You can’t tell Cersei.”

“She’ll find it out sooner or later. I’m certain it will become evident to her the next time you two choose to cuckold the most powerful man in Westeros.”

“I can’t,” Jaime said despairingly. “I’m bonded so I can never again lay with another woman.”

“Cersei will lose her favorite bed warmer too? Oh, this gets better and better with every word out of your mouth, Jaime!”

He was too lost in his gleeful daydreams to notice the way Jaime’s head shot up. His bloodshot emerald eyes were now pinning him in his place. “Her favorite bed warmer?”

Tyrion’s sudden desire to dance around the room, clapping his hands like a child, died. Well, no, the desire was still present but it was coupled with the rising knowledge of having shared information that he really should have kept to himself. “You shouldn’t have heard that.”

“Her favorite bed warmer?” This was probably not the best time to remember that Jaime had earned his place on the Kingsguard by merit, that for the sneering moniker of Kingslayer, his brother remained a formidable swordsman. Tyrion slowly reached for the open bottle of wine.

“I misspoke for hatred of our sister,” the Imp told him. “You remain the only man to hold her heart.”

“Tyrion…” His brother’s voice had gone softer and more dangerous. He did not regret his decision to throw the wine into his eyes. “Tyrion!”

“Don’t harm my books, brother!” With that most valiant of battle cries, Tyrion tipped his run over and tried to run out the door. He underestimated his brother's determination though for Jaime's hands grabbed him around the waist a moment later. He struggled to drag the younger Lannister back as the dwarf struggled and screamed blue murder.

"Don't put your hands there Jaime!"

"What did you mean by favorite bed warmer?"

They continued to struggle for a few minutes longer until Tyrion noticed that the door was ajar again. His Uncle Kevan was staring at them in mute disapproval, arms crossed and servants peeking from behind his shoulder. Tyrion wondered how it looked to them to see their golden boy wrestling his nude dwarf brother into submission.

The Imp relaxed in his brother's grip. Eh, even if he was naked and humiliated right now, at least he knew that Cersei would feel even worse soon. 

x

Robb consolingly patted Theon on the back while subtly pulling his half-filled tankard of ale away. He was starting to get seriously worried about the state of his friend's liver. This must have been the eighth or ninth tankard. The innkeeper was making brisk business with Greyjoy's broken heart though naturally the ward refused to refer to it that way. 

"I think the brothel girls have been missing your coin lately," Robb said carefully. By the Warrior’s name, he was getting desperate. “You haven’t seen Ross in a sennight now.”

Theon mumbled something that might have been a refusal and he sighed. “We should leave soon.”

The Greyjoy made an inarticulate noise of protest and then looked intently towards the mug. Robb helpfully pushed it off the table. The glass was strong enough to bounce on the padded straw floor but that ale would be lost forever. Theon tried to order another one but the Heir to Winterfell had stolen his purse a good two drinks ago and was soon able to lead him out of the room.

‘I should have tried harder to keep them apart before this,’ he thought morosely. Even had Lyarra not been betrothed to another man, Theon wouldn’t have had a chance with her. For all that his father treated the Greyjoy ward honorably, he hadn’t forgotten that Theon would return to Pyke eventually. And Lord Stark would never have given his winter rose to the likes of the Lord Reaper’s son.

Robb personally believed that it was a mere pup’s crush that his friend nurtured but the knowledge that she was soon to be married had Theon think himself ripped away from his one true love by the cruel whims of the gods. Honestly his friend could be even more dramatic than Sansa at times.

“We’re near to the castle now,” Robb grunted, keeping one wary eye on the uneven ground, “Toral, Peter, help me bring him inside.”

“How much ale’s he been having, m’lord?” Toral asked wide-eyed, at the staggering boys.

“Mores than he should be ‘round Lady Stark.” Peter took the other arm and helped shift the weight away from Robb. He made a huff of annoyance when Theon managed to weakly punch his stomach.

“Shut it, you curs.” The Greyjoy looked up and squinted in Robb’s direction. “You going to see Lyaa?”

Neither wanting to encourage his friend nor lie, the red-haired teen jerked his head forward in a sort-of nod. Theon’s voice got a little stronger. “You better make sure she’s okay Stark.”

“Don’t worry about my sister, Greyjoy. I’ll take care of her. Just go and get some sleep.”

Despite his confident words, Robb still tarried outside of his sister’s room. It was as far from his heir room as it could possibly be while still technically being part of the family quarters. It was one of those slights that he had silently sworn to correct the day he became the Lord of Winterfell.

‘Now I’ll never have the chance. Should she be allowed to visit after her marriage, it will be to sleep in the guest quarters with the Kingslayer.’

The idea that his younger sister was to be married in a year or less, depending on how long Lord Stark could manage to delay it, still bewildered him. She must be scared witless in there and he had been so busy with Theon that he couldn’t afford a single conversation in the last sennight. Robb felt terribly guilty for that neglect while also grateful that Arya at least had fulfilled her sisterly duties.

He knocked the door, received an invitation to enter, and walked inside to a typical sight. Dressed in her customary white camisole, dark ringlets free to frame her oval-shaped face, and violet eyes pinned to a heavy scroll spread across her bedspread, Lyarra looked much the same as she always did. The light of the roaring fire and the candles in the room cast a warm glow to her pale skin and her loose-limbed lounging on the bed merely drew attention to the curves of her body.

In that view, Lyarra looked more seductive than any sister of his had the right to be. See, now this was why Robb needed to be a overprotective older brother. 

“Brother, it’s good to see- eck! Don’t throw your clothes over the candles, idiot!” 

“Put that cloak on. Maester Luwin said it may snow tonight,” Robb ordered, pleased when the milk toned shoulders were covered by the fabric. His sister appeared a little disgruntled as she sat up and pushed her book away. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“If it’s about Sansa’s blue teeth, then Arya and I are not responsible,” Lyarra immediately denied. “You know how similar pecha berries are to blueberries. It wouldn’t be the first time the cooks mistook the two.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure someone else is to blame. I wanted to speak to you of the soul mark.”

Her smiled faded. “Must we? I’ve spoken to everyone about it by now. Father is planning my dowry, Lady Catelyn is educating me on Southron customs-”

“Mother is teaching you how to be a Southron lady?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Lyarra paused. “No, no it is. I’ve spent all of this morning studying the Faith of the Seven. It was awful.”

“Why would you need to learn of the Seven?” Robb tried to push his way onto the bed. Lyarra clung more tightly to the bedsheets in protest. They ended up in the odd position of a contented redhead splayed sideways on the bed while a disgruntled dark-haired girl threw her legs over his stomach. 

“House Lannister are followers of the Seven. Lady Catelyn said I may have to recite my vows in a Sept,” Lyarra made a face. “She wanted to review my sewing too, to practice for the marriage cloak.”

“You won’t be married in the godswood? You’re a Stark! All Starks are married in godswoods.”

“I’m a Snow who's about to become a Lannister,” she reminded him bitterly. “At least I get a proper surname at last.”

Robb didn’t know what to say to that. Instead he pulled himself up and maneuvered her boneless form until she was resting against his chest and they were both staring out the window across the room. The whistling flurries of the promised snowstorm were dancing around against the dark starry skies.

“Mayhaps the Kingsl- Lannister will allow you another ceremony in the godswood.”

She looked up, violet eyes drooping from tiredness. “Why don’t you call him the Kingslayer?”

“He’s to be my good brother. The least I can do is stop using such an insulting title for him.”

Lyarra quietly hummed in the back of her throat. If he strained his ears, he could hear the beginning bars of a Northern lullaby Old Nan had sung to them as children. “Father doesn’t like him.”

“Lord Tywin or Ser Jaime?” Robb used one hand to brush through her curls. They had both inherited them from their respective mothers since the Stark hair was normally thin and straight. 

“Both.” Lyarra’s eyelids fluttered down. It made him smile to remember that such an old trick still put her to sleep. Even if she was soon to be a married woman, and a lion at that, she was still his little sister. “I’m to marry a man that Father doesn’t trust or like.”

“Father spent his entire childhood in the Vale, then he was at war, and finally, the last decade and a half in Winterfell,” Robb stated. “Jaime Lannister grew up in Casterly Rock and then spent most of his adult life in King’s Landing. They know each other by reputation but those can be misleading.”

“All rumors have a kernel of truth in them,” Lyarra stated, voice tired and words slow. 

Robb shifted her off of him and onto the bed. He carefully maneuvered her head over the pillow. “Then let the kernel be that he is a skilled and handsome knight that rid the world of a madman, for I refuse to believe that the gods will bind my sister to a monster.” 

Lyarra smiled and closed her eyes. “I’ll miss you Robb.”

He leaned down and placed a kiss to her brow. “Sleep without fear little sister. If your lion knight does not treat you well then you can send a raven knowing that your big brother will ride down to save you.”

x


	4. Chapter 4

“Clasp your hands together and position them on your lap thusly.” Lady Catelyn demonstrated the movement but what appeared so natural and graceful to the older woman felt clunky as Lyarra copied the action. “Straighten your back and tilt your head downwards. A little less, you seek to look demure but not submissive. Be willing to tilt your chin upwards when you need to make a point but don’t do this too often. Arrogance will not be freely forgiven in a baseborn child.”

The dark-haired girl grit her teeth together and complied to the order. However necessary Lady Catelyn believed these instructions to be, and in many cases, she truly couldn’t find any reason for them, they were unpleasant to experience. Perhaps that was a lesson in and of its own though; her fortitude had certainly been strengthened by the constant litany of complaints and insults.

“Arrange your face into something more pleasant Lyarra. Smile, not so freely, but with an evident pleasure in your company,” Catelyn sighed. “Try to look as you do after you perform some mischief or the other with Arya and seek not to be caught. That’s better. Now relax your spine; you’re too rigid.”

An hour more of instruction on how to properly walk, prepare one’s tea, hold a conversation, and gracefully deflect unpleasant queries followed. Lyarra was surprised to find that she held some measure of talent in forming polite dismissals; apparently all those years of blowing off the guards that believed a woman shouldn’t be allowed to hold a weapon paid off. She was surprised when Lady Stark placed her tea down at the end of that particular lesson, signaling an end several hours early.

“Are we already done, Lady Stark?”

“No. The basics will need continued review until it’s time for you to leave but there are other matters to address.” Lady Catelyn stood up, brushed out her skirts and strided over to the cabinet. “The South expects its ladies to possess at least one talent to their name. Swordplay and hunting are not acceptable options; falconry is and you are skilled enough there but you need something more acceptable indoors. You will be learning to play an instrument.”

“I am no great proficient but I have received instruction on all of the instruments here. Study each of them and select the one that feels most natural in your hands.”

Lyarra obediently picked the closest one to her reach, the rebec, and tentatively applied the bow to its strings. The pear-shaped instrument released a screeching noise of protest and she hastily put it back down. The next instrument, the viol, invoked a similar reaction and she began to move away from the bow-related pieces. She thought the dulcimer made a pleasant ringing sound when its taut strings were hit by the wooden spoons and put it aside for further consideration. The flute made a whistling noise reminiscent of an owl’s hoot and that made her giggle as she put it aside as well. The psaltery thrummed comfortingly beneath her fingers and Lyarra thought that this may end up her choice.

Then her hands touched the harp and Lyarra fell in love. 

Fingertips brushed purposefully across the line of taut strings and a handful of high, clear notes sang through the air. She slowly plucked each one from upwards down, absorbing the subtle difference present in each note, and noting how the pitch deepened in movement. Selecting the first, second, and fourth strings, she pulled them in quick succession, allowed the notes to near-fade into the air, and then pressed down on the final string. The melody was simple, melancholy, and sweet. Lyarra was utterly delighted.

“I see you have made your selection,” Lady Catelyn observed softly, an odd look to her. Lyarra looked up and flushed at the error of having made her pleasure so evident. Her stepmother did not seem to mind as her eyes softened in remembrance. “Your Aunt Lyanna had a marked preference for the harp as well. Mayhaps it is a Stark favorite then.”

The dark-haired girl attempted to stay still in her seat. Lady Stark typically did not acknowledge her ties to House Stark or any of its members. She wondered if it was poor omen that the first one she could remember in many moon’s time referenced an aunt who died so young.

“As you seem to have found your instrument, we will begin immediately.” Lady Catelyn returned to her brisk yet polite manner as she changed her seat and took ahold of Lyarra’s hands. “Use your thumb and the first three fingers of your hand and position them like this…”

The remainder of the morning passed too soon for Lyarra’s taste. She soon familiarized herself with the mechanics of the instrument and began playing a short melody until it was to Lady Catelyn’s satisfaction. There was a sense of pride blooming inside of her when it took two repeats alone to gain the strict woman’s approval. 

“You have performed more than adequately today. Keep the harp to yourself. It does no one good to keep it locked in my cabinet and it will allow you additional practice in your free time.”

“Thank you,” Lyarra said, for once genuinely filled with gratitude at the end of a lesson. “I truly do appreciate this.”

Lady Stark nodded curtly and it was clear that she had reached the end of her sentiments for the day. The Snow child curtsied once more and turned to leave. As she was walking down the hall, her new treasure cradled to her chest, Lyarra saw a flash of crimson turn the corridor. Pretending to have missed it, she passed on to her room, aware of Sansa’s eyes fastened to her. Lyarra didn’t know how her sister felt at that moment but she did not attempt to speak to her and perhaps that was to be an answer of itself.

x 

“Lord Tywin, please take a seat and eat your fill,” Lord Wyman Manderly invited, ushering his eldest granddaughter, Wynafred, to his side. Her calm temperament and charming inquisitiveness would be his best chance to get some answers. “You must forgive me for the humble fare of my table. I had no prior warning of your visit, you see.”

The Lord Lannister eyed the massive table almost groaning from the weight of the rich dishes- smoked beef, salted fish, marinated eel, date pudding, sugar-dusted cakes- and withheld a snort. 

“I suppose my raven to Lord Stark must have been delayed then.” 

“Unfortunate business that! With the fair winds this past fortnight, I would have judged any raven capable of reaching White Harbor from Lannisport in three days time.”

“A letter was sent to Lord Stark,” Tywin replied coldly. “It is his business whether he chooses to alert his bannerman or not.” The Manderly Lord bristled.

“Lord Tywin, have a serving of this mince pie. The herbs used for it have been grown in our own gardens,” Wynafred interjected sweetly. “You must be famished from the long trip. Pray tell us of all of the Houses you have visited along the way.”

“I have visited none,” Tywin denied, “It has been a direct trip from Lannisport to White Harbor. My men and I will be leaving before daylight breaks tomorrow.”

“You mustn’t leave us before experiencing our hospitality in full, my Lord. It would be needlessly cruel to deprive my sister and I of our amusements in twittering after these guards of yours.”

“My guards are not for a young lady’s amusement, Lady Wynafred.”

“I would disagree with you, my Lord. All handsome men are for the amusement of young ladies.”

He scowled. “Nonetheless my business with Lord Stark is too important to prolong. My apologies for depriving you of the pleasure.”

“I can hardly accept until I understand why my amusements are lost,” Wynafred insisted. “Are you perchance negotiating a trade deal with the Starks?”

Aware of the inevitability of the news spreading throughout the North, Lord Tywin decided that he would provide some information in exchange for a peaceful meal. “There will certainly be a negotiation Lady Wynafred. I expect you will see my purchase when I leave from your harbor in a sennight.”

Despite the brunette’s gentle pestering, Tywin refused to indulge further and the dinner conversation moved to other topics. As Wynafred and Wyllas were coaxing details of the court out of the reticent Lannister, Lord Manderly’s mind turned over the words already spoken.

‘Any trade deal between the North and the Westerlands would have to include House Manderly at the table for the sheer convenience of trade by sea, if nothing else. It cannot be common goods then and there are no special goods sold by Winterfell. It may be politics but Ned avoids that viper’s pit as much as possible. Lord Tywin claims to have sent a letter but if it was before his trip began, then he was in enough of a hurry to outpace ravens. Ned didn’t have the time to alert me either. Then there’s how he referred to the purchase. It sounded like a singular transaction… it couldn’t be a person, could it?’ 

x

“Lyarra, can you come here? There are some matters that I need to speak to you about.”

As there was only one subject that came to her mind, Lyarra was understandably apprehensive as she stepped into the Lord’s solar. This room held its fair share of memories for her: the glass table where she and Robb had raced their marbles, a small library filled with family history that Father had awkwardly read aloud from, and a thick bear carpet with its glassy stare that had made fairytales for. She perched on a seat before the great wooden desk, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, and focusing dark violet eyes securely on the window to the glass gardens. 

“Is this about my mark Father?” The dark-haired girl broke the silence first when minutes ticked by without a word from him. She looked towards the grey-lined man sitting across from her, noticing the solemn way he regarded her. It disturbed her to think that he was looking at her as though it would be the last time he would see her. “Father?”

Ned Stark stirred at her voice. “Yes. May I see it once more?”

She wordlessly proffered her arm. On her wrist was the roaring lion, prideful and menacing in one heartbeat and strong and beautiful the next. Of the dragon shadow that it cast, she knew not. “Do you know what the dragon part of it means Father?”

It was the one part that puzzled her most. Why would Starks deserve retribution for a fallen dragon when they fought to bring down the Targaryen dynasty?

“I have my own suspicions on the matter,” her father replied. “In truth, Lyarra, I don’t think it’s House Stark that’s receiving reparations from House Lannister.”

“Then who could it be?” Lyarra’s heart started beating more rapidly. “My mother…?” 

Would he tell her the truth at last? Would she finally learn the other half of her heritage? She had once or twice believed it to be a whore but the common folk’s suffering never compelled a mark!

Her father looked down, as though ashamed to meet her eyes. Was it due to their shade? The violet that was entirely uncommon throughout Westeros and unheard of in the North?

“Before I was promised to Catelyn in my brother’s stead, I travelled to a Tourney in Harrenhal,” Ned began. “I met a young noblewoman there by the name of Ashara Dayne. She is- she was one of the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Her brother was Arthur Dayne-”

“-the Sword of the Morning!” Lyarra gasped out, awed. But then who had not heard of Arthur Dayne? He was one of the most respected knights in all of Westeros, beloved even after the Rebellion, the greatest swordsman of the Kingsguard and… and the man her father killed.

The dark-haired girl stared blankly forward. There could be no manner of expression to give credence to the sheer confusion and horror pooling in her belly. Her father noticed.

“The man I slew to retrieve your Aunt Lyanna’s body.” Her father reached out a hand to clasp hers and squeezed it tightly, even as she flinched. “Too many good men died in that war, Lyarra. From both sides of the battle.”

“I understand,” Lyarra managed to say. She was not sure if she did, not truly, but she could remember Ser Oswell Whent, who had also died that day. He was Lady Catelyn’s second cousin but he had fought for the Targaryen’s, even as the Riverlands declared for Robert Baratheon. 

“No, you do not,” Lord Stark responded gently. “And I pray that you never have cause to. Ser Arthur died and I carried his body and sword, Dawn, to Starfall, the ancestral castle of House Dayne.”

She nodded numbly. Lyarra had little knowledge of the noble houses of Westeros, though she could recite the description of Dawn by rote. An ancestral greatsword as pale as milkglass and as strong as Valyrian steel, claimed to have been forged from the heart of a fallen star and wielded by worthy knights of House Dayne for thousands of years. 

‘Worthy knights like Ser Arthur Dayne… my uncle was Arthur Dayne!’ 

This would have been the greatest moment of her life if she hadn’t known of his death. Her father relentlessly continued. “When I arrived there, I met Ashara. We spoke briefly and when I left, she threw her body from the Palestone Tower of the castle. Her body was washed away by the waves.”

“She killed herself?” Lyarra body grew cold in grief and hot in fury. “Why? Why would she do that? Didn’t she want to keep me? Didn’t she fight for me?”

“Do not judge her too harshly, Lyarra. Ashara was a strong woman but she was exhausted from childbirth and grieved by her brother’s death. She had lost her maidenhead and I… I was unable to restore her honor.” Ned spoke near silently. “She took to the only escape she believed left to her.”

“That’s not enough of a reason!” Lyarra snapped back. ‘Is my mother from one of Sansa’s tragic love stories that she couldn’t bear to live without her shining knight? I would never have thrown my life away for any man! I would have stayed- I would have taken care of my daughter…’

“Lyarra!” The sharpness of Lord Stark’s voice made her jerk backwards and blink back her tears. She hadn’t even known that she half off of her seat already. “I do not want to hear you ever speak of Lady Ashara like this! You have never experienced the pain that she had; you cannot judge her for that which you believe you would have had the strength to do.”

There was an uncustomary fierceness to his tone, a pain-filled anger that her father rarely showed, that silenced her. Did he truly care for her mother that much? Did he love her?

‘Of course he did,’ Lyarra reminded herself. ‘This was something you always knew. A lord does not raise his bastard alongside his trueborn children unless he truly loved her mother.’

The servants had whispered of it, the bannerman had debated over it, Lady Catelyn had pained herself for it… and this was proof that Lord Stark had loved her mother. Her Father said that they had met before he was promised to Lady Catelyn. If so, would he have married her if given the freedom? Would Lyarra have been a trueborn daughter instead of a bastard?

It was an enticing thought but one quickly rejected. She wouldn’t have had any of her half-siblings if Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully did not marry. 

Instead she moved her thoughts in another direction. “Can you tell me about Lady Ashara?”

Lord Stark hesitated. “Another day, Lyarra. We must speak of your soulmark first.”

Dissatisfied, yet she nodded obediently. “Ser Arthur knighted one man alone during his time in the Kingsguard- his squire, Jaime Lannister. I am sure he came to regret that decision when the knight he trained betrayed the Kingsguard to kill King Aerys.”

“Then this mark is for reparations from House Lannister to House Dayne because Ser Jaime killed… a Targaryen?” Lyanna furrowed her brow. “This sounds rather distantly linked, does it not, Father?”

“Perhaps but Ser Arthur was the Silver Prince’s closest friend,” Lord Stark replied. “And I cannot think of any great wrong that House Lannister caused us.”

Lyarra nodded absently. So lost was she in the mark on her wrist that she overlooked the restless way Eddard Stark drummed his fingers across the table. “Is this all that you wanted to share Father?”

“No. I wanted to pass on a warning to you,” Lord Stark paused to collect his thoughts. “The Lannisters… are not necessarily kind people, Lyarra. History has not painted them well.”

She inclined her head in agreement. “My soulmate is an oathbreaker.”

Ned Stark winced. “If there is any man worth breaking an oath over it would be Aerys Targaryen.”

“There are children who fell to their blades as well. I promise to remain honorable regardless of my husband’s name.” 

“I know that you will be but there’s something I would wish for you take with you. A raven bred by Maester Luwin to fly directly and true to House Tully. You must send it out the moment that you feel yourself in danger, Lyarra. Promise me this.”

A shiver ran up her spine. “I- Surely you don’t think I’ll need it, Father?”

“For all of my differences with Lord Tywin, I do not believe him to be a kinslayer,” Lord Stark answered honestly. “And your mark will afford you greater protections than any raven can. However, it would do my heart some good to have this option available to you. You may claim it as a mere pet.”

‘Exactly where am I going that Father believes such falsehoods to be warranted…?’ 

x

Her sibling’s packing left a lot to be desired.

“I don’t think that I’ll need this many furs in the Westerlands.” Lyarra looked bemused as she shifted through her leather satchel. This bag was to hold her personal necessities on the road south and it was already bulging at the seams. Her finger brushed past something sharp and she winced. “Where did you get all of these knives?”

“From the kitchen!” Arya chirped back. “Hide them under your bindings, won’t you? The Cook will be very cross if he learns that I borrowed them.”

The dark-haired girl sucked on the bead of blood welling at her fingertip dubiously. “There are a dozen blades here. I can’t possibly need this many.”

“You can never have too much pointy steel, Lyarra,” Arya insisted. “Who knows when they’ll come in handy against those shifty lions?”

“A stabbing is a terrible omen for marriage,” Robb chided. “What are all of these rags for?”

Lyarra looked at the handful of torn strips of cloth and felt her mouth twitch. “My monthly bleedings.”

“What are those?” Bran piped up as Robb practically threw the rags away. He was sitting cross-legged on her bed, copying down passages from the books that she had withdrawn. Some contained knowledge about the Westerlands that she intended to memorize but most were references to herbs and such. 

“Proof that the Gods favor men,” Robb told him. “Do you truly want to bring a sword with you?”

“I would feel better if I was armed,” Lyarra replied. They exchanged a brief look of understanding, her elder brother having been the only one she shared their Father’s warnings with. “Now that I think about it, these knives are wonderful Arya. Let’s bundle them up in some leather strips though.”

Arya beamed smugly at her praise. She was soon flitting about the messy room, extracting anything capable of securing kitchen knives. It was startling to find how many things she truly owned when they were all strewn across her small abode. Not that Lyarra should have expected any less when three of her siblings decided to help her pack.

‘I’m never going to see this room again.’ Lyarra blinked rapidly to keep her eyes dry. This may be the smallest, most distant room within the family wing but it was still a Stark room. ‘Bran will never sneak into my bed during storms. Arya will never storm in here after fighting with Sansa. Robb will never hide bottles of Arbor Gold under my bed.’

“I need to step out for a minute,” she said aloud. “I would like to have a quick ride to clear my head.”

Her siblings waved her off, each engrossed in their own tasks. As Lyarra stepped outside, her last sight was of Robb tossing aside her most flimsy sleepwear. Honestly, did he think she would be wearing a fur coat to bed in the southern summer heat?

‘I’m going to miss him being stupidly protective,’ Lyarra thought fondly. Growing up, she had judged his actions unwarranted but the knowledge that Theon apparently had a crush of some sort on her, and that Robb of all people had noticed it before her… she would miss an older brother’s protection. ‘It’s for the best though. Robb is an unblooded boy grown on stories of glory and valor and the Kingslayer survived two wars.’

Things were moving too quickly. Yesterday her father warned her about her future husband’s house. Right now, her siblings were packing up the essentials for her trip southwards. And just this morning, Lady Catelyn had dismissed her lessons in favor of talking about marital duties. Marital duties! Lyarra had choked on her tea and that had been the highlight of the morning. 

It wasn’t that she was unaware of the mechanics of the process. There were farm animals aplenty in Winterfell and Theon’s boasts, though likely stretched, had some grain of truth in them. She was also aware that Ser Jaime was the eldest son of Lord Lannister and that she would be expected to provide an heir. And she wasn’t entirely ignorant of the fact that men of that age typically had… er, needs but it had all been inapplicable to her. At least until Lady Catelyn clinically reviewed it all.

Lady Stark had even remarked, in the most painfully neutral tone possible, that her husband would be incapable of sharing another woman’s bed since the mark materialized. This did nothing to comfort her; if he had mistresses on the side, there would be someone else willing to deal with those needs. 

Lyarra inwardly fumed. Her home, her family, her independence, her dreams, and now her maidenhead? What would Ser Jaime Lannister be losing from this marriage business?

Rather than spend more time than necessary brooding over her losses, Lyarra kitted out Frostbite and took him out for a ride. She was barely out of the gates before her legs pressed to the steed’s sides, pushing him into a gallop that blew her braid in the wind and drew an honest laugh from her lips.

Instead of the forest, she expertly guided him to the open fields, through lanes dividing fields of ripened wheat, not yet grown enough for harvest. A sea of grain spun past her, blurring into a dash of pale yellow, as Frostbite leapt over the occasional wooden stake marking the fields apart. At near the ten minute mark, she felt some faltering in Frostbite’s pace and slowed it down to a fast trot. It still allowed the cool breeze to whip past her face and turn her curls into a veritable nest of tangles.

The fields were near empty in the midsummer sun and the grain low enough that she immediately spotted the splotch of red on the horizon. Slowing Frostbite down once more to a steady walk, to preserve the strength needed for a quick getaway, Lyarra approached without much concern. These were Lord Stark’s lands and this party must have passed more than one group of guards by now. 

The rich crimson of their coats did not bring to mind any particular House but the golden lion did. One quick glance at her wrist and Lyarra was promptly turning Frostbite around. Six knights led by a stern, white-whiskered man with the most ornate stitching she had seen yet. It appeared that her future good-father had arrived.

‘As if this day couldn’t get any worse too…’


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

Tywin Lannister had not expected a warm welcome from House Stark and he appeared correct to have done so, from the glacial greeting Lord Eddard offered. The Northerner had at least the decency to properly array key members of his household for the visit. At his right, with a four-year-old boy clutching at her skirts, was his wife, Lady Catelyn. From his left, descended each trueborn child by age: the polite yet unhappy heir, the nervous eldest girl, another girl with a fierce scowl on her face and a boy that gave off a faint air of disapproval. 

 

He had to look behind them to locate the bastard. Her hands were clasped demurely in front of her blue, high-waisted gown and her smile was fixed and distant. Tywin noted that her sleeves were firmly lowered to cover the ink-stained mark he knew to be present. Taking the opportunity to study her, the Lord of House Lannister noted that she was a decidedly attractive child, dark-haired, violet-eyed and full-figured, though not yet having grown into her full beauty. There was something familiar about her but the Lannister had met many people as King’s Hand and certainly several Starks before, so it wasn’t too odd. Her bastard status and unfortunate House values aside, Jaime could have done worse. 

 

There were servants present as well but the lion lord easily dismissed them.

 

The banalities exchanged were done so quickly and with the mutual understanding that neither party found them sufficient for any pleasure. Tywin even went so far to partake of their bread and salt, a custom that he had never put much stock in but was well-respected in the North. Finally, the Quiet Wolf saw fit to invite them in, to the evident relief of his men. He couldn’t deny a desire for the castle’s warmth either, not when they had come across a sudden, swift blizzard on the Kingsroad. 

 

A blizzard. In the summer. Thank the Gods that his Jaime’s bride would be moving to the Westerlands.

 

The dinner fare was acceptable but simple enough that Tywin was beginning to suspect that Lord Stark hadn’t any intention to invite him north. The Lion Lord was placed in a guest seat of honor with the Stark Lord to his right and the Stark Heir to his left. They completed their meal with minimal discourse and thankfully, Tywin was invited to the Lord’s Solar for the negotiations a moment later. He politely didn’t question why the Maester was allowed to sit with them.

 

A few minutes later and Tywin Lannister came to the realization that Eddard Stark was irrationally fond of his bastard.

 

“They  _ will _ be married within a moon’s turn, regardless of your concerns in the matter!” Tywin snapped. “There have been girls wedded and bedded earlier than five-and-ten namedays.”

 

“While those marriages have occurred, it is well known that birthing a child young places the life of the mother at risk,” Eddard replied quietly. “I will acknowledge the necessity of marriage- though, I remind you, not due to the actions of  _ my _ House- but I would like to put it off until she is older.”

 

Tywin bristled at the accusation. “The Mark will harm both parties lest a marriage occurs.”

 

“Not necessarily.” Ned Stark turned and nodded to the Maester. 

 

The white-haired man brought over the heavy text held in his hand and opened it to a marked page on the desk. “According to the writings of Maester Namon, who codified King Jaehaerys’ research on the marks, the backlash only occurs if the delay is intended to  _ resist _ the bond. In the case of Princess Rhaelle and Lord Ormund, the marriage was delayed for six years to allow the princess to acclimate herself to the prospect. Neither party was harmed for the duration.”

 

“Exactly.” A glimmer of approval appeared in the Stark’s eyes as he gestured for the Maester to leave. “There will be no backlash because this delay will only strengthen the bond later on. Certainly Ser Jaime cannot be pleased to wed a child? He would be far more comfortable approaching Lyarra when time and experience have given her maturity. At twenty namedays, she would be more ready to be a wife and mother.”

 

Tywin glowered. “Do not claim to know my son’s feelings on this matter.”

 

Nonetheless, he brought the text closer and read the appointed page. It was, he admitted reluctantly, not an argument without merit. The additional time could be put to good use raising the bastard to House Lannister’s standard and easing the idea of marriage to a rather shellshocked Jaime. Tywin would have even advocated it himself had there not been the pressing issue of his daughter’s temper.

 

“I would also be willing to forego the bride price for a marriage delay,” Lord Stark added.

 

“And I suppose you would insist on the bastard being raised in Winterfell until her wedding date?” 

 

“ _ Lyarra _ will be raised here, yes. Starks don’t fare well when they travel south and with the circumstances of their union, I believe it fitting to keep my daughter here.”

 

Tywin regarded the man, his stoic Northern features unable to hide the sheer implication of scorn from the self-righteous wolf, and struggled not to snarl. This man had _ no right  _ to pass judgement on a lion, no understanding of how Jaime had earned his blasted epithet. Eddard Stark had seen his bloodied and hysterical son and immediately named him oathbreaker, assumed that the Kingslayer had done his deed for self rather than duty. Jaime had saved King’s Landing and even now, the Lord that had been chasing after his sister even as an entire city was poised to burn due to his friend’s actions, dared to look down on him. Dared to call himself honourable even when his  _ bastard _ was to be wed.

 

“Perhaps the southron blood in her will win out then,” Tywin snapped. His keen eyes catalogued the wolf’s wince, attributed it to Ashara Dayne and took satisfaction in tearing at that wound. 

 

“I would make your daughter Lady of the Westerlands,” the Lannister told him.

 

“Aye. A great honor, my lord, if she should live to accept it,” Lord Stark stated wryly. “Let us be frank. I am not happy to accept the Kingslayer into my family.”

 

“Neither I a bastard,” Tywin shot back. “No, the Starks are not ones for pretty words, are they? Very well than I shall be frank as well.”

 

The Lion Lord paused to recollect his thoughts, refusing to allow his anger to coat the words. “Your daughter will marry my son. There is nothing that either of us can do to stop this, however much we  _ both _ desire to do so.”

 

Ned Stark inclined his head in agreement and Tywin continued. “As I have said, I mean to make Jaime my heir and his wife shall be the Lady Lannister. As  _ you _ have said, there is some risk before she may assume that role. I acknowledge that such a risk exists and that that is why it is imperative for them to marry quickly. As Jaime’s wife, she will have the protection of the Lannister name-”

 

“Are you _ threatening  _ my daughter?” Ned Stark interrupted, grey eyes flashing. 

 

“Don’t be foolish, boy! When would I have done that?” The Lannister looked aggravated.

 

“You just stated that she will be in danger until she marries your son. Even if you are not the cause of the danger, are you truly unable to control the lions in your own family?”

 

“Unlike you, I have more than just an errant brother and a brood of children to account for,” Tywin answered. “Have no fear of harm from mine’s sake. You can entrust her to me.”

 

“I would sooner entrust my daughter to a pit viper than you, Lord Tywin,” Ned Stark said plainly.

 

“Her Dayne blood doesn’t guarantee welcome from the Martell’s, Lord Eddard,” Tywin snorted, noting the barely hidden wince on the younger man’s face again. Honestly, it had been five-and-ten years; the Quiet Wolf had to let his affection for the Lady of Stars die. “You haven’t any choice in the matter. I am here to pick up my good-daughter and escort her to Casterly Rock. They shall be wed there.”

 

“I refuse to let her be wed immediately. They need some time to learn of each other,” Lord Stark protested. “Six moons.”

 

“That is far too long. One moon.”

 

“And that is far too short. Four moons.”

 

“Three and I shall delay any presentation of court until their first child is born.”

 

Lord Stark paused and considered the offer for a moment. He nodded. “They cannot have a child in their first year of marriage.”

 

“I cannot control that,” Tywin protested. “However, I know my son and I know of his reluctance to sire a child. When it eventually does occur, it’ll likely be your daughter pushing him into it.”

 

At this point, the ghost of a smile crossed the wolf’s face. “You have never met my daughter then.”

 

_ ‘Wonderful. Not only do I have to manage a marriage between my son and a bastard but now I have to compel them for grandchildren too.’  _

 

Tywin sighed and partook of the wine available to him. “Let us discuss the bride price then. House Lannister does not expect a dowry-”

 

Another paper was presented to him. A quick skim showed it to be a respectable amount of silver, lumber, livestock and animal skins. It was not necessarily equal to Cersei’s dowry but respectable nonetheless for a Great House. For the first time, Tywin Lannister considered that bastard or not, his son’s marriage was to a daughter deeply loved by the Warden of the North. 

 

“Very well. Now the bride price had been arranged beforehand and will arrive within three fortnights…” 

 

_ ‘It could be worse,’  _ Tywin reminded himself. ‘ _ I would rather Jaime marry a wolf than a dragon…’ _

 

x

 

“Don’t hesitate to send Carex, if you feel frightened,” Robb whispered, referring to her newfound messenger currently flying to Casterly Rock. The dark-haired girl hugged him closer, trying not to let her tears fall. “Remember that I am only one raven away.”

 

“So am I,” Bran piped up, tugging at her wrist to pull her out enough to hug her himself, “Remind Ser Jaime that you have two brothers to ride to your side. And Rickon too, I suppose.”

 

“I am certain that he will be very frightened,” Lyarra told him, ruffling his auburn locks. She let Arya tackle her next and assured her that she had indeed remembered to slip a sheathed knife in her dress. “You must all remember to write to me.”

 

“Father purchased another two ravens to fly between Casterly Rock and Winterfell,” Arya answered. “I’ll use them every week. You will tell me all about your training, won’t you? And don’t let your stupid lion keep you from carrying a sword. He’s a Southron. He doesn’t understand anything.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Lyarra managed a weak smile for her mirror-self. She personally doubted that the Lannisters would allow her a blade. At least women were allowed to ride. Father had even been kind enough to gift her Frostbite. “Pay attention to all of your lessons, even the boring ones.”

 

Arya made a face but nodded anyway. Lyarra continued down to Rickon; her four-year-old brother was already sniffling. He did not understand why she was leaving but knew it meant his sister would be gone. His hug was particularly wet and snotty but the dark-haired girl treasured it nonetheless, softly promising to send letters and gifts just for him. When she stood up, it was to Theon Greyjoy looking at her. There was an awkward smile on his face, hands clasped back as he faced her. 

 

“So… I get to keep my shirts now?” Theon had a smirk on his face but it looked almost forced. “That’s good, I guess. You keep spilling some nasty-smelling potion on it or the other-”

 

“I’ll miss you too.” Lyarra ignored the redness on the boy’s face as she hugged him tightly. The Snow was surprised to find that this was true. She may not have harbored any romantic feelings for him but Theon had become a friend, in his own way. “I wish you every happiness Theon Greyjoy.”

 

“I- I do too,” Theon cleared his throat. His hands wavered around her waist, unsure where to put them before Robb’s cleared throat suggested that perhaps stepping away was for the best. “All the best of luck to you Snow.”

 

Lyarra nodded and moved to her last sibling. Behind her, she heard Robb’s voice hiss  _ ‘what shirt?’  _ to a flustered Theon. When she stopped in front of Sansa, the red-haired girl merely looked at her silently.

 

“I wish you a happy life, Sister.” Hesitantly, Lyarra reached out to grab Sansa’s hand, a brief burst of relief inside her when the girl did not flinch. She squeezed it once and received one in return.

 

“I will pray for you,” Sansa’s eyelashes were fluttering rapidly. There was a glistening wetness to her river blue eyes. Lyarra nodded, a little disappointed, as she prepared to move away. Her hand had scarcely left Sansa’s when the red-haired girl was barreling into her arms. She slid backwards on the balls of her feet, balancing precariously for a moment and then hugging her sister back.

 

“Have a happy life… Sister,” Sansa told her softly. “I will miss you.”

 

“And I, you,” Lyarra assured her. From above the girl’s shoulder, she could see an approving smile on Robb’s face and a lesser one on Arya’s. She moved to Lady Stark next, who offered her a most cordial goodbye and then her Father. The dark-haired girl hugged him most tightly, for she could scarcely imagine a life where she was not under the silent protection that Lord Eddard Stark offered.

 

“Keep your eyes up, child. You are a wolf and wolves do not fear hardship.”

 

“I am not a Stark,” she told him.

 

“You may not have my name but you have my blood,” Ned Stark stated fiercely. “You will always find a home in Winterfell, Lyarra. Never doubt that.”

 

At that point, Lyarra truly did lose the battle with her tears and found herself sobbing in her father’s arms, much like she had when she was a child stricken by night terrors. Rickon started wailing in response and then Bran and Sansa began crying too. Arya started rubbing at her eyes furiously while muttering ‘stupid’ over and over again while Robb started complaining of the dust in the air. The Lannisters merely stared at the wolf pack in bewilderment, most looking rather sympathetic.

 

Tywin Lannister merely looked up at the sky, wondering what exactly his House had done to deserve this. 

 

Eventually the Lion Lord managed to extract his future good-daughter, looking rather uncomfortable to be in contact with the young woman, and lead her to Frostbite. The party left soon after and Lyarra turned back to see her family once more. A pack of wolves before an ancient castle growing smaller and smaller as she rode south. For a brief moment, she was struck by a complete and utter hatred of Jaime Lannister, of a golden-haired, green-eyed Southron knight that dared to wear her soul mark. And as suddenly as it came, her fury disappeared, cast away to the winter wind. Unknown to her, as she rode south, the dragon shadow on her arm grew darker.

 

x

 

“Lord Dayne, there’s a messenger here for you.”

 

It took a moment, as it always did, for him to remember that they were addressing him. No matter how many years had passed, the twelve-year-old Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall, kept looking around for his father to take the lead. Then he remembered that the duty fell to him now.

 

“Thank you Moira. Please have the messenger escorted to my greeting hall.”

 

The words received a warm smile from one of the older servants in his employment, one that undoubtedly recalled days where he would run around the castle in abandon, and a curtsy. She hurried out to fulfill his orders while he turned to his young aunt.

 

“Why do you think they’re here?” Edric inquired softly. The approaching delegation embossed with a golden lion had taken them all by surprise. Even if Starfall was at the opposite end of Dorne from Sunspear, no one had thought Lannisters bold enough to march into the sands.

 

A dark look crossed Aunt Allyria’s face. “Knowing the lions, nothing good.”

 

Not in the least reassured, Edric offered her his arm and led her to the open, sunny room. He was greeted by a man in a sweltering coat of red and gold fasted by copper braces. The messenger looked at him dubiously as he entered and the shy boy attempted not to squirm under the look. 

 

“Why have you come to Starfall, Lannister?” Edric questioned, attempting to channel his aunt’s betrothed, Lord Dondarrion’s, confidence.

 

“Lord Tywin’s letter was too important to be entrusted to a raven,” the Lannister replied pompously. “I was also meant to escort the caravans here.”

 

“Joy,” Aunt Allyria smirked. “A delivery boy.”

 

Subtly poking his aunt to prevent another jape on the man’s behalf, Edric opened the letter and skimmed it over. In flowery court language, House Lannister offered its deepest regrets over some vague ‘wrongs’, mentioned a soul mark between Ser Jaime Lannister and a cousin he had never heard of before, stated that said cousin will now be married into House Lannister in reparations, and noted that the bride price would be split between them and House Stark. It concluded with another insincere apology for House Lannister’s previous actions.

 

Edric merely had one question left.  _ ‘I have a cousin?’ _

 

He wordlessly passed the letter onto Aunt Allyria and she read it over even more quickly.

 

“And what reparations does Lord Tywin think are appropriate for all that we have suffered?” Aunt Allyria demanded haughtily, shooting him a swift look to stay silent.

 

The man gestures out the open window where he could see several caravans rolling inside. Before he could tell him that this was a mistake and that Edric hadn't any cousins to name, the man started listing them off.

 

“Five-and-twenty bolts of silk fabric in crimson, gold, violet, silver, emerald and azure. Seven-and-ten caskets of the finest Arbor Gold. Two-and-ten chests of minted gold dragons. Three-and-ten baskets of spices, including saffron from Lys, mint leaf from Pentos, orange blossoms from Myr…” 

 

As the man continues to list off the small fortune that Lord Tywin apparently handed over to them, Edric can merely think, _ ‘I’m not alone anymore.’ _

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

Ser Norwin Moreland tugged his forest green and earth brown cloak tighter about himself, holding back a shiver to his limbs as the North’s bite cut to his flesh. He was sitting on an overturned log surrounding one of the many little fires their party had set up in Moat Cailin. Above him, amidst reddish brown piper’s grass and wiry thin reeds, rose half-rotted black basalt towers, the chipped and stained teeth of the lands in an open maw slick with pond scum and river water. Between his hands was a clay mug full to the brim with a sweet-scented tisane made by the sole lady of the party. Dark purple poison kisses bobbed on the top, their waxy petals enclosing a sundrop yellow center. Norwin hadn’t been sure about drinking a tisane laced with a flower explicitly named poison but eventually the cold drove him to a sip. And a slight bitter aftertaste aside, the drink was quite good.

 

_ ‘It’s the only warm thing about the lady thus far,’  _ Norwin thought, eyeing the dark-haired lass sitting nearby her horse, feeding a raven nuts by her own hand. It kept her far away from the warm tongues of the fire but she seemed indifferent to the chill. It made him envious that she could move around with such ease in nothing but the simple long-sleeved, high-necked dress Northern ladies preferred.

 

For the first day of their journey, Lyarra Snow had been as cold and silent as her name, neither engaging the party in any conversation nor answering any but the most superfluous question in polite, short-clipped answers. She’d ridden her horse next to Lord Tywin’s, near the center of the party, as was her right as his future gooddaughter but hadn’t spoken more than a handful of phrases to him. Not a single complaint had passed her lips over the course of the trip, wherein she made the unusual choice to ride astride. Indeed, she handled her steed fairly well for a lady though it was evident that the bastard wasn’t used to traversing long distances. Lord Tywin had arranged for two more rest periods than they typically took and during them, Norrin had spied the young woman slipping away to her usual distant spot, discreetly taking a hand between the slits in her heavy overskirt and rubbing at her thighs. He sympathized. His first overland journey to a tourney had rubbed his calves raw too. 

 

_ ‘I wonder if the skin beneath her dress is as fair and smooth as that above?’ _

 

Not soon after having the thought, Norrin hurriedly shook his head to dislodge it. He took a gulp of his tisane, wincing at it burned the roof of his mouth, and ventured a nervous glance at his liege lord. The knight  _ intellectually _ knew that Tywin Lannister was incapable of reading minds, and was immersed with the papers on his lap desk regardless, but it was difficult not to react that way. His brother’s childhood stories of the man and how he knew all of the comings and goings of the Westerlands still haunted him in adulthood. Ser Norrin was not in the least bit eager to learn of Lord Tywin’s reaction to any man that covetted his son’s bride, for all that this match seemed to displease him.

 

_ ‘It’s such a  _ shame _ though, to waste such a beauty on a man that preferred the white cloak.’ _

 

Ser Norrin had been a castle knight in Lord Tywin’s employ for near four years now, since the young man of eighteen years had been knighted. He was well-known to the servants there and even bedded a comely maid regularly enough that he’d learnt of Ser Jaime’s reaction to the soulmark. While it was understandable that no man desired to be bound as reparations, and to a bastard nonetheless, getting piss drunk over the news and wrestling the Imp took that a step too far. Maybe that rumor of Ser Jaime being rather more fond of the sword than accepted had some basis after all.

 

_ ‘Not that the lady can be expected to remain a maiden. Lord Tywin would get an heir from her if he had to hold Ser Jaime at swordpoint himself.’ _

 

Those words prompted another anxious gulp of the tea, after which Norrin decided that he’d wait until he was in his quarters before he had any more musings that would lead to a shallow grave in Moat Cailin. There’d been men enough buried here for far worst offenses than he’d committed thus far.

 

Watching the girl had brought back his sympathy for her plight however. Not for leaving her home to wed a man she barely knew. Ladies did that sort of thing all the time and even if he would be unable to satisfy her in bed, Ser Jaime was a better match than any bastard could hope to make. No, Norrin instead felt acute sympathy for the calf pain of a day’s hard riding.

 

“Hey, Androw.” Norrin used his covered boot to sharply nudge the sleepy-eyed lad across from him. The squire was Forsyth's and thus far, hadn’t been the worst sniveling, bright-eyed brat he’d seen. “Have you any more of that ginger tincture?”

 

The sandy brown-haired boy started a little, looking up forlornly from his own finished drink, to squint at him. “Yeah, whatta you want it for?”

 

“Just want a good night’s sleep,” Norrin said easily, as though he hadn’t developed the callouses and muscles years ago. “Trade you the rest of my tisane.”

 

The boy perked up and promptly swapped his half-finished drink with a wrapped handkerchief stained with yellowish paste. The sharp scent of ginger hit his nose as he stood up, taking a moment to stretch his own legs, as he left the fireside. Most of the men were too tired to care but he caught a few eyes tracking his progress as he made his way through spongy soil still wet with last night’s storm. This was far enough south that it was small pools of greenish water marking the event than a thin layer of icy white powder.

 

Lady Lyarra looked up when he was more than half a dozen paces from the horse. Her violet eyes retained their hue even in this dim light, presenting themselves as two hardened gemstones to him. The Westerlands didn’t have as many precious gemstones in their vaunted mountains as they did gold or silver strains but House Moreland had a few deposits near their land. Norrin personally found her gaze akin to the alexandrite collection that graced his mother’s brow, collarbone and ears. Under the candlelight, the stones shone as fiercely as her eyes did now.

 

“My lady.” Norrin sketched a perfect bow, as one did to the woman that would rule should Tywin Lannister ever humble himself to die. “This is for you.”

 

“Ser… Norrin,” the lady spoke after a second’s pause and he found himself unexpectedly pleased that she’d remembered his name. She didn’t move to accept the handkerchief held between his cupped hands though, instead looking at him with wary and hooded eyes that struck him as uncommon in a young maiden of her years. “What is it?”

 

“A ginger tincture that can soothe aches.”

 

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise but her face remained as implacable as ever. Had he not seen her descend into tears when leaving behind her family, Norrin would have thought this Northern lady as heartless as any to ever grace a lord’s bed. Pale hands reached out to accept the offering and he looked down to gaze at little details that none of the trueborn ladies he’d ever seen had. There were calluses on her palm, a stain of ink not yet faded on two fingers, small white scars littered throughout and then her hand receded. 

 

She opened one of the linen’s triangular folds to peek in. “Ginger root, minced garlic, black pepper seeds, Valerian stalk and… willow bark, I think? Yes, this’ll be far more effective than my current paste. Thank you, Ser Norrin.”

 

The knight hid his surprise through the matter-of-fact listing. 

 

He was startled a moment later when the lady looked up to him, a sincere smile breaking across her face as though a sole ray of sunlight had fought it way through foreboding clouds. Th upturn of pink bowed lips softened the sharp angles of her cheekbone and the long face of the Starks. The violet eyes warmed to something sweet-natured and amicable rather than distant and untouchable and shallow curves broke into the smooth skin around her mouth. She  _ dimpled _ . It was sincerely frightening how swiftly that managed to steal his breath away.

 

“You’re welcome, my lady,” Norrin managed to say, before staggering away. As he did so, the brief surge of emotion that overcame him, breaking through his perfectly reasonable fear of his liege lord, was unaccountable regret.  _ This _ was the beauty to wed Ser Jaime? ‘ _ What an absolute tragedy.’  _

 

x

 

Lyarra took out one of the sheafs of bound notes within her burlap satchel, drew out the foremost roll of parchment and then returned her fortnight’s worth of hard work. She gave the perfectly serviceable satchel one pat of apology. It had been sufficient to her needs for the many years since she’d first sown it as a girl of eight but the slight tightening around Lord Tywin’s eyes meant that it would soon be discarded for one of boiled leather, metal clasps and possibly gold stitching. It was, as with many other parts of her, apparently inadequate to her position in accordance to her future goodfather’s will.

 

The dark-haired girl tried not to take too much offense to that. She knew that all brides sacrificed a measure of their past for their future roles and responsibilities and Lyarra, being a bastard, would be expected even more. She knew that this loss would be one of many minor slights to her history. She knew that she would lose this satchel, a piece she hadn’t even cared for until its imminent loss became clear to her. She  _ knew  _ all that but she couldn’t help that well of bitterness in her chest either. Once again, Lyarra Snow was being measured by another and found wanting.  

 

_ ‘At least, as a Lady Paramount, they’d have to impose their judgement solely through the eyes.’  _ Lyarra felt a good deal more cheery at the thought. There would always be people conferring judgement upon her for being a bastard, she knew that, but if their trip had proven anything so far, it was that Lyarra Snow’s status in the world had risen significantly.

 

In the last twelve days, the party had made its way south via the Kingsroad and turned westwards on the River Road at the Crossroads Inn. The road here was better maintained by the Riverlands and, as the party of a Great House with the proper pennants flying in the wind, they’d been able to move quickly past cleared roads. Lyarra had earnt a fair few curious glances herself, her raven hair an anomaly amidst shades of gold, brown and even russet in her party and with her inability to darken even a shade more in the sun. 

 

They hadn’t been unkind glances though. The smallfolk had looked at her like she was some important lady- which, she often had to remind herself, she technically  _ was _ now- and made way for Frostbite. When they settled in village inns alongside the road, she was afforded one of the best rooms on Lannister gold and with a guard before her door at night. When she was escorted around the markets as they picked up more supplies, merchants hawked directly at her and threw flattery and prices at her feet. When she passed a wandering Septon on the street, he’d immediately conferred his blessings upon her, faster than Lyarra could protest that she was a follower of the Old Gods.

 

‘ _ Disadvantages of being Ser Jaime Lannister’s bride: Septon blessings. Advantages, as many ink bottles and parchment scrolls as I’d like. _ ’ 

 

Lord Tywin had dropped a red-dyed drawstring pouch on her lap in the first village they’d passed, instructing her to limit herself for the duration of this trip. One glance had told Lyarra that that would be an absurdly easy task; a later, more thorough counting, revealed  _ twenty _ gold dragons and five silver moons. She’d known House Lannister was wealthy but this was an exorbitant sum for more than just a fortnight’s trip. The average farmer in the North made a five dragons in one year’s work. 

 

For Lyarra, who hadn’t spent more than two stags in writing supplies, thread and apples for Frostbite, this would more than double her savings. If this marriage business didn’t work out, the dark-haired girl might consider finding a ship to take her to Dorne. Of course, if the soul mark on her wrist didn’t kill her, than the Martells might for being Ned Stark’s daughter and Jaime Lannister’s soulmate… 

 

No one had been actively unkind to her thus far but it was evident from Lord Hoster Tully’s cold reception of them at Riverrun, that the man either strongly disliked her future crest, disliked her or likely enough both. The man had condescended to her throughout the entire one-night stay in the castle. Lyarra hadn’t taken any insult from that, other than a few discourteous thoughts about the apple not falling far from the tree where Lady Stark was concerned but Lord Tywin had. While she was certain he felt her an inferior bride for his son, the man hadn’t taken well to anyone else implying anything of the sort. He’d been equally dismissive and scornful to the Riverlord after Edmure Tully slighted her by offering his arm to the Septa of their castle for dinner. Hoster Tully’s reaction to this had been controlled but Lord Edmure’s had not and viewing any features reminiscent of Lady Stark’s contort in frustration and affront was a balm to her soul. She’d  _ almost  _ liked her goodfather then.

 

The man wasn’t speaking to her presently, though he rarely ever did, and none of the knights that had thus far treated her obsequiously spoke either. The silence settled amidst their party between tension and comfort, neither siding to one nor the other, and Lyarra decided that she simply couldn’t have it. The rolling green plains and winding rivers of the empty stretch of road could be interesting for only so long after all and while she hadn’t any intentions to speak- the Gods forbid the thought!- Lyarra was bored. Her default when in this form was to find comfort in the written word.

 

Thus, a neatly arrayed list of Westerlands Houses with tiny sketches of their banners and creeds, laid out before her. She balanced herself well on Frostbite, kept one hand on the reins and began to study.

 

_ House Algood. A golden wreath on blue with a golden border. Victory at All Costs. _

 

_ House Banefort. A black-hooded man on a grey field with a fiery crest. Woe Betide Our Enemies. _

 

_ House Bettley. Three blue beetles on gold. Seeking Ever More. _

 

_ House Brax of Hornvale. A purple unicorn on a silver field. To Look- _

 

“What are you reading?” A deep voice drew her out of her study, pink lips still pursed as she mouthed the last phrase to herself. She looked over to the hazel green eyes of Lord Tywin, silently angling her parchment so that his keen gaze could read the words. 

 

“I’m studying the Westerlands’ bannermen, my lord.” Lyarra answered aloud as well, in case she’d misjudged his sight. Lord Tywin was a proud man. He’d not appreciate having to request her answer again should his eyes fail him in this. 

 

There was a nod of acknowledgment but his features were too still for her to discern any censure. “The knights here are drawn from some of my principle bannermen. You’ll learn details of their immediate households from them personally.”

 

It was not a request, so Lyarra, discomfort pooled in her belly at this very first test placed in front of her, returned to the parchment. Her voice trembled a little at the beginning words. “I-is anyone of House Algood here?”

 

An older knight with salt-and-pepper sprinkled hair looked back with a kindly expression. “I am, my lady. Ser Thyman of House Algood. My older brother, Lord Edwyle, rules our House.”

 

_ ‘Old enough for a wife and children then.’ _ Lyarra took a deep breath. “Has he any children, Ser?”

 

“Aye, two daughters, both married, and a son of nineteen years, soon to be wed. My nephew is Ser Martin Alwood and he’s betrothed to Lady Cylla Hawthorne…”

 

It continued in this manner until the sun rose high in its zenith. Soon, the dark-haired girls nerves gave way to the focused concentration that characterized her studious nature and made her excel in Maester Luwin’s memories. She did her best to commit as many names to her memory as she could, at least the lords and their sons, though many of the names escaped her. Not all of the men were as detailed as Ser Thyman but Lyarra learnt from sons of Houses Clifton, Drox, Ferren, Garner, Greenfield, Jast, Lantell, Moreland, Sarsfield and Serret. Ser Caelum Vikary was just giving her an account of the main branch of his House, the sour expression showing that he didn’t care overmuch for his father, when a loud, panicked whinny came from the front of the party.

 

_ ‘By the Gods’ tits!’  _ Lyarra held tightly to Frostbite’s reign, pulling the grey and cream thoroughbred back a little to keep it from skittering in fear. Her knees clenched around her mount instinctively, one hand balling around the edge of her parchment before common sense had her drop it and use both hands to maneuver her steed. The other horses either closed protectively around her or rode forward to meet the bandits ahead. 

 

It was a group of roughly ten to fifteen men, all poorly attired, bearing scythes, hammers, pitchforks and other farm tools in their hands, and screaming as they ran at the knights. The immediate two in the front surged forward, drawing gleaming metal in one practiced gesture and falling on the bandits with ease. A few others dispatched to do the same, well-trained, well-practiced and without mercy, either innate or trained, against the men to attack them. Lyarra’s heartbeat thudded rapidly as she watched the bandits fall one by one, a few scrambling back to the relative safety of the woods on either side of the road, as it became obvious where the victory would lie. Finding one man that had managed to outflank a knight raise his pitchfork, certainly unable to pierce the guard’s plate armor but more than capable of striking a fatal blow to that poor horse, she acted.

 

_ ‘I have to practice this more.’  _ It was downright pitiful how her clumsy fingers slipped underneath the overskirt of her dress, taking out a sheathed knife from its inner pocket and undrawing it. The familiar weight of a knife in her hand comforted Lyarra immensely as she curled her fingers around the hilt, took aim and threw it into the air. It whistled overhead the guards, aim true and a sincerely beautiful arc, before hitting its target true. The bandit howled in pain as the steel dug fully into the fleshy knucklebones of his pitchfork hand. 

 

A heartbeat later and his screams were silenced forevermore. The knight had slit his throat.

 

There was blood spilled all over the road and while Lyarra had seen such a sight before, had travelled with her father and even thrown a knife in defense two years past, it felt decidedly different. There was no Ned Stark here to turn to her, grey eyes swamped in concern as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the blood and gore. Her stomach turned. The dark-haired girl would have been tempted to draw out her breakfast from this morn had it not been for one thing. The men were all staring at her. The Westerlands men were all staring at her and Lyarra suppressed any indication she’d have of sickness or fear. This was not her father and these were not his men. There was no room for weakness in her husband’s House.

 

The Snow coughed self-consciously and then firmed her voice. “You were saying, Ser Caelum?” 

 

x

 

The mountain pass to Casterly Rock was dotted with the ramshackle buildings of abandoned towns from whence riches of the earth were once mined. Tywin Lannister made a mental note to have someone come by and tear these eyesores down. They detracted from the natural beauty of the land around them. On either side, rose majestic sheer cliffs of yellow-white stone veined in strains of the white chalk preferred for teaching tools amongst the nobility and merchant classes. There was the crisp green of the grazing land preferred by livestock in the plateaus they’d crossed thus far and pockets where spruce and fir sprung up, huddled together in a few rare areas of nutrient-rich soil. The sky above them was a full expanse of blue one would have to strain their neck to see directly above the rocky ridges. Far to his east, nearly past where they could be seen, were thin wisps of black drifting upwards to the heavens.

 

He saw the bastard’s eyes directed there also and offered a curt explanation. “The iron-smelting guilds have a factory there.”

 

Lyarra Snow’s eyes lightened in clarity and she looked expectantly at him for more knowledge. Tywin found that this didn’t bother him overmuch as he fell to lecturing the child that had the good sense to learn about her husband’s home and the House her own son would lead one day. A maester’s role suited him well, as he’d been the eldest of four brothers and had no compunctions in lecturing to the others whenever the mood took him. He’d even taught Jaime the lessons accorded to his Heir occasionally though his son’s lack of interest in them, as well as his own heavy responsibilities as the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and the Hand of the King, meant this was not done often. He was pleased that the bastard listened as attentively to him as Kevan would.

 

“While the main occupation of the Westerlands is mining, accounting for near two-thirds of the workforce, there are also plenty of individuals focused on agriculture, livestock, particularly sheep and cattle, industry, artisanship, fishing and the requisite positions necessary to supporting a society, such as seamstresses, bakers, butchers and the like. The gold, silver and precious gemstones that we mine are passed onto silversmiths, metalworkers, jewelers and others to craft into specialized items that can be sold for a hefty sum within and outside of the Westerlands. We also have eight iron-smelting operations that handle a good half of the iron we mine, though I’ve plans to expand that in the future and currently export both raw iron and crafted steel to the other realms.”

 

He took a moment to pause here and allowed her to absorb the words. She nodded after a moment. “Is the gold also exported to make coins and the like?”

 

A pride enveloped him as he replied. “It is not.”

 

The bastard girl’s eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth, possibly to refute the answer, before pursing those bow-shaped lips and thinking it through. Her tone was filled with disbelief. “The Crown allows you to mint the coins yourself?”

 

Tywin nearly smiled. He didn’t but he was almost tempted to. “It was a concession made by King Robert as the previous factories were destroyed by the war and the Crown needed excess coin to drive down inflation and stabilize the economy.”

 

“And the King didn’t retake the operation himself after the economy was stabilized?”

 

“He did not.” Robert Baratheon’s lack of common sense and inability to rule infuriated him often but in this matter, it had been to the decided advantage of House Lannister. Tywin had poured plenty of gold into the King’s pet projects- namely, tourneys, whores and wine- in order to gain this. “The Crown gives us a generous stipend each year to perform the service in their stead.”

 

Luminous violet eyes were still filled with outright wonder at their monarch’s carelessness. He could understand why. Most men weren’t foolish enough to grant such a powerful economic tool to a single realm, even if Tywin was ostensibly beholden to the King’s orders. 

 

Lyarra Snow moved on. “Sheep provide wool and cattle leather but that leaves silk, linen and other fabrics to be imported?”

 

He inclined his head. “We import most of our linen from the Riverlands, under a heavy tax, making it a more expensive fabric here. The silk likewise is gained from the Reach, after they export it from Dorne, making the cost too high for most smallfolk. A good selection of products from Pentos makes its way through the Gold Road from King’s Landing and due to another agreement, it is only taxed twice, upon entry to port at Blackwater Bay and when it reaches Deep Den, the first city for which Westerlands’ taxes are levied. House Lydden holds that seat and its current lord, Lord Arlan, is my foremost tax collector. He arranged for bi-monthly caravans to travel to Casterly Rock…”

 

As the two continued their lesson, Tywin Lannister was merely left to mild regret and wistfulness.  _ ‘Why could Jaime not have been like the bastard?’ _

 

x

 

In the high halls of Casterly Rock, a dwarf poked a knight sharply on the cheek.

 

“Look, it was funny the first day and I pitied you for the rest,” Tyrion said exasperatedly. “But it’s been a fortnight now and _I_ _am running out of wine._ ”

 

His brother, the golden-haired Golden Son of Tywin Lannister, groaned and covered his eyes. The drunken man was curled up on a bed, not even his but  _ Cersei’s _ childhood abode, trying to work through his hangover. It would have been laudable except for the half-filled glass bottle of Arbor gold held laxly between his fingers.

 

Tyrion sharply drew open the curtains. Jaime released a grief-filled whine. The glass bottle wavered dangerously and the Imp toddled over as quickly as he could to save his precious drink from his older brother’s goddamn inability to get over a mean-spirited woman that cheated on him repeatedly. And who was also their sister but since when had that ever matter to dear Jaime?

 

_ ‘At least the sour vintage is safe,’  _ the dwarf thought in relief. It wasn’t often that Dornish strongwine made its way to Casterly Rock and when it did, it was at incredibly inflated prices. Tyrion had acquired a few bottles over the years and when it became clear that Jaime meant to drink them all, he’d paid his most tolerable cousin, Joy Hill, to hide them in her clothes hamper. “Get _ up, _ Jaime.”

 

“Go ‘way, Tyrion,” Jaime mumbled back. He opened one bloodshot eye and damn all the Gods for their unfairness, for he looked nearly as handsome, piss drunk, foul-odored and rumple-nested as he did when he cared about his hygiene. The lion knight hissed at him. “I want to die.”

 

“You can’t do it by wine, that’s my plan,” was his quick retort. “Father’s arriving this noon.”

 

That was the wrong thing to say. Jaime buried his head in a child’s pillow and started mumbling to himself. Previous experience had revealed this to be recriminations against Lyarra Snow for daring to wear his soul mark and inadvertently leading to his discovery that Cersei was a cuckolding whore. Well, more of a cuckolding whore than usual, considering she was wed to that lush they called a King. 

 

“You need to make yourself presentable. A damn bath would be a good start,” Tyrion muttered. He didn’t particularly care for the increasingly ridiculous threats his brother spouted against a young woman he couldn’t take action against anyway. Jaime had levied the same threats against him, words slurred in sudden upset, for taking a most unusual path for a Lannister and revealing the truth.

 

“Give me a name,” Jaime responded mulishly.

 

“A bath, a meal, a visit and no more than a daily glass of wine for a sennight,” Tyrion bartered. 

 

The knight didn’t bother to make a counteroffer before he surrendered. It sincerely hurt Tyrion’s heart to see his proud older brother reduced to this, even as he accepted that it was a necessary part of pulling Cersei away. She’d spent so many years with Jaime, sunk her claws in so deep and poured through so much venom by her kisses, that it would take an equal pain to wrench them out and leech him clean. Lesser men may not have even survived it but he knew his brother. Jaime was a knight. One tarnished and cracked by the difficult choices life had presented before him but an innately good man inside, at least to the ones he loved. Without Cersei there to belittle any quality that didn’t fit her idealized image of her twin, as the mirrored half and oftentimes blade of her will, he’d find those traits that first inspired him to be a knight. He’d find his courage and decency. Jaime would survive.

 

_ ‘And until then he’ll be finding ways to inflict even more pain on himself though.’  _ Tyrion went through his mental index of men he knew his sister to have slept with, having decided at the earliest to omit any they were close kin to, like Cousin Lancel. “Osmund Kettleblack.”

 

Jaime closed his eyes, self-inflicting yet another blow to himself. “I’m going to kill him.”

 

“I know you will, Brother,” Tyrion said sympathetically, patting his back. “Now, rise from bed. I’ve had a maid ready your bath.”

 

x

 

_ I am oddly fond of Jaime at the moment and decided to write another chapter of this as a result. Lyarra’s strongly inclined towards the economy and understands the basics underlying trade. Her talent in politics and intrigue is far more limited but she’ll learn swiftly, as she has to. Also, to try and instill some type of order in finances, I’ve decided on the following:  _

 

_ 1 Dragon = 1,250 USD.  _

 

_ I know that an ounce of gold is higher, roughly $1326 as of this writing, but the former amount is easier to track. _

 

_ 30 Silver Stags = 1 Moon = 150 USD _

 

_ 1 Silver Stag = 5 USD.  _

 

_ It takes 210 Silver Stags to make 1 Golden Dragon but that would make it roughly 6 USD for a Stag and this is easier to keep track of.  _

 

_ 1 Copper Star = 1 USD _

 

_ 1 Copper Penny = 0.5 USD _

 

_ Every other currency in Westeros won’t be considered for the course of this fic. Also, I know these figures are wildly differing in value but in my defense, GRRM made 1470 Copper Stars equal 1 Dragon’s worth and you cannot tell me that people calculated that easily. There are also many oddities when it comes to the cost of basic goods in Westeros, so that doesn’t help either. _

 

_ Lyarra has 20 Golden Dragons, 4 Silver Moons, and 28 Silver Stags from Tywin. Her own funds comprise of 13 Dragons, 7 Silver Stags and 3 Copper Stars in mostly silver stag and copper stars form. She only had 8 full Dragons before this (nameday gift from Ned from her seventh birthday onwards) but I use it in that form to make it easier to track. In total, Lyarra Snow’s Current Funds: _

 

_ Golden Dragons: 33 _

 

_ Silver Moons: 4 _

 

_ Silver Stags: 35 _

 

_ Copper Stars: 3 _

 

_ USD: $42,028 _

 

_ She’ll get an allowance from her husband (or more accurately, Tywin since Jaime is currently an unemployed, depressed, drunk slacker… poor Lyarra. She’ll be so unimpressed by her husband) but will be expected to maintain her own household. Genna will sit down and try to help her sort through this but Lyarra has a head for numbers and will do her best to manage this responsibly. I’m not sure what the full costs of a lady’s household should be. I know she needs to set aside funds for her own wardrobe, the upkeep of Frostbite (stable costs and food), allowances for her ladies-in-waiting, miscellaneous purchases like her own harp and that’s about it. There are likely others and if anyone has estimates on how much should be marked for each cost, please inform me. Also I was not kidding; Tywin really did hand her over 25 grand for spending money. Part of that was to impress upon her how much wealth and power he has. It worked to some extent though her innate Stark came out and became very judgemental at this colossal Southron waste of gold. I expect Lyarra to have a coronary when she learns how much the King gives away for his tourney purses. _

 

_ Lyarra: Robert Baratheon is my father’s best friend and I will be loyal to him as my King. _

_ Tyrion: He’s six million dragons in debt. _

_ Lyarra: Screw it, we’re taking over this kingdom! _

  
_ What would a good monthly allowance for the next Lady of the Westerlands be? Is 50 dragons reasonable? I mean, in medieval times, the rich were  _ very _ rich and the poor were  _ very  _ poor and there wasn’t much in between. Lyarra needs to get the same allowance that Tyrion or Jaime could expect or near that amount and while Tyrion’s whoring and drinking habits could be a mid-level expense, books were handwritten and worth thousands in those days. Lyarra has access to the Lannister library but she’ll likely also purchase a few books for her own private collection, so she needs the kind of allowance that will cover that.  _


	7. Chapter 7

_ This is not another chapter but a fact sheet on the current finances of House Lannister and landmass of different realms in Westeros. Thank you to Author376, who helped me work through most of this, and also ArkonWarlock, witchbreaker, InkyKate, AngelQueen and others that have contributed great ideas and inspired even more. The above is a short list, so I apologize if I overlooked anyone here. _

 

Landmass of Regions:

 

The North: 3,300,000 sq. mi.

The Iron Islands: 50,000 sq. mi.

The Vale: 350,000 sq. mi.

The Crownlands: 150,000 sq. mi.

The Riverlands: 500,000 sq. mi.

The Stormlands: 500,000 sq. mi.

The Westerlands: 350,000 sq. mi.

The Reach: 900,000 sq. mi.

Dorne: 900,000 sq. mi.

 

_ Reasoning: The landmass of Westeros is, according to GRRM, equivalent to South America, making it roughly 6.8m sq. mi. For the purposes of this story, it’ll be rounded up to 7m sq. mi. and divided thusly. 50k sq. mi. will belong to the Iron Islands and 150k to the Crownlands, bringing it down to 6.8m sq. mi. Of that, the North is slightly less than all of the other realms put together, so here, the North is 3.3m sq. mi. and the other realms are 3.5m sq. mi. altogether. Of the 3.5m, the Reach and Dorne are roughly equal to one another and make up a little more than half, with 900k sq. mi. going to each of them. This leaves 1.7m sq. mi. remaining, of which the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands and the Vale share. Now the last two are supposed to be equal in size and the first two are slightly bigger than that. To keep it simple, the Stormlands and the Riverlands are the same size, with 500k sq. mi. each and the Westerlands and Vale split the remainder at 350k sq. mi. Now these are very rough estimates but it puts the Westerlands as one of the smallest regions by landmass, coming in either sixth or seventh place. _

 

Wealth of House Lannister

 

Personal Income on an Annual Basis: 780,000 Gold Dragons or $975,000,000 USD

 

Breakdown:

 

185k GD from Casterly Rock mines

200k GD from bannermen mines

125k GD from grazing tolls on land

270k GD from business and trade taxes

~6k GD from miscellaneous fines

 

_ Reasoning: Sales tax isn’t something easily calculated in medieval times, so I apparently cannot squeeze out more gold there. The Casterly Rock mines were calculated from Potosi, Bolivia, the famous city that had a mountain made of silver and earned Spain incredible riches during its colonisation. At its height, the mine produced 25 bags of silver ore daily with each bag weighing roughly 45kg. A kg is roughly equal to 35 oz. and the going rate for silver is $16 per oz.  _

 

_ Math: 25 bags * 45 kg. per bag * 35 oz. per kg. * $16 per oz. = 504 GD daily or $630,000 USD.  _

 

_ In a year’s time, the mine would produce 183,960 GD, rounded up to 185k GD. _

 

_ For the bannermen, there are four other very profitable mines in the Westerlands, not owned by Casterly Rock. Those mines are Castamare, Golden Tooth, Nun’s Deep and Pendric Hills. Tywin demands a flat annual fee of 50k GD from each of them, which encourages innovative practices amongst his bannermen because they get to keep the remainder of the gold mined. _

 

_ For grazing tolls on land, the average Northern farmer makes 4 GD annually. In the Westerlands, there’s more demand for local produce and better soil, so that rises to 5 GD. It’s a step up to be a cattle farmer or sheep herder instead and the average one brings in 8 GD annually, of which a 6.25% tax means that Tywin makes 0.5 GD per toll. He sells 1m tolls annually for an income of 250k GD and splits that equally with bannermen for 125k GD for Tywin. Where did I get those numbers? I made them up but they sound reasonable enough, so I’m keeping them. _

 

_ For business and trade taxes, this one was likely lowballed. The Westerlands has a population of 3 million people. In the United States, 63% of the population (as of 2015) were working age adults. That rounds down to 60% of the Westerlands, around 80% (of the 60%) work in service-related jobs, like miner, guard, servant, farmer, soldier, etc. They do not pay income taxes. 20% do pay business taxes though, which is higher than the Westerosi average but the Westerlands has many silversmiths, jewelers, artisans, etc. This leaves a working age, taxed population of 360,000 people. _

 

_ Math: 3 million people * 60% working adults * 20% business-related workers = 360k people. _

 

_ The average salary for a business-related worker shall be fifteen dragons, considerably more than menial jobs because one needs education and experience for this. Tywin charges a 15% tax but 10% goes to the various bannermen, so he only gets 5% overall. _

 

_ Math: 360k people * 15 GD salary * 5% tax = 270,000 GD _

 

_ As for the fines, you may have noted that there have several times throughout this explanation where I either rounded up or down. The miscellaneous fines are to account for any underestimates with the sums (for overestimates, Tyrion gambles with the luck of the devil). Tywin has issued rules to his bannermen about keep the roads clear and the drinking waterways unpolluted and if he sees said rules broken, he will institute a fine. That’s where the ~6k GD, maybe more, maybe less, comes in. _

 

_ Also, after calculating all this, I just realized that Tywin Lannister is  _ rich _. I know everyone says he is but this doesn’t even account for the many other lesser sources of income he may have had, like investing into some of the businesses in his realm or import taxes. He is a very wealthy man. _

 

Annual Expenses of House Lannister

 

Robert Baratheon: 300k GD 

Casterly Rock: 125k GD

Lannister Naval Fleet: 16k GD

Personal Knights (Peace): 64k GD

Household Allowances: 75k GD

Tourney and Entertainment: 75k GD

Almsgiving and Faith: 60k GD

Remainder: 65k GD

 

_ For Robert Baratheon, he actually had decent reserves when he first regained the throne, despite the financial instability then because he had war chests from all of the looting the rebels did of Loyalist Houses. He also gained a fair bit of coin from issuing punishment to Houses like House Darry that stood with the dragons. The instability was because Robert outlawed Gold Dragons with Aerys’ image on them, which were the foremost denomination then and without hard currency, trade grinded to a halt. Tywin Lannister moved quickly to print new Gold Dragons with Robert’s face on them and retained control of that aspect of the monetary supply since. With the King’s lavish spending though, that cushion dwindled and he started borrowing heavily from House Lannister post-Greyjoy Rebellion. Lyarra was eight then, she’s fifteen now and the King owes her goodfather 2.1 million GD. It’s not the almost 3 million GD that gave poor Ned a heart attack when he was Hand but it’s still considerable. _

 

_ Casterly Rock has many expenses, focusing on upkeep, food, servants, etc. The primary driver of costs is heating bills. They need to import most of their lumber because the Westerlands doesn’t have much in the way of forestry and thus, bring in lumber from the Reach. Getting it from the extensive forests of the North, particularly in the Neck, would be nice but you’d have to traverse your ship through Ironman’s Bay and there isn’t a ready port there. If only there was a Northern lady there to persuade her goodfather into making a considerable investment in a Northern port and handing control of those operations to House Reed… It’d be cheaper in the long run but there’s not a lot of gold available in the budget yet. _

 

_ The Lannister Naval Fleet is comprised of, according to ASOIAF Wikia, fifty to sixty large galleons. Of course, there’s a significant difference between those two numbers but let’s assume sixty to be safe. House Lannister does not own them all. They don’t even own the most ships, that honor belongs to the Fair Isles, which are the primary line of defense against Ironborn aggression. Tywin owns twenty galleons. It takes 800 G to maintain them annually, so his costs are 16k GD. I quadruped that for household knights, guards, soldiers, etc. when not at war, making them 64k GD. This is Tywin’s personal army, not the full one he raises for battle, and yes, it does include Gregor Clegane, also known as Lyarra’s future target practice. _

 

_ Household accounts are based on the premise of the Saudi Royal Family that assigned monetary allowances to their 2000 plus members annually, ranging from a couple thousand a month (third cousin) to a few billion dollars (brother of the King). Basically, the closer you are to the main branch or the more useful you make yourself, the more you get. Kevan and Genna, for example, get supplemental allowances of 1000 GD annually, while Jaime and Tyrion get 700 GD each. Each niece or nephew gets 200 GD and so on. Tywin spends about 75k GD here.  _

 

_ He spends 50k for tourneys and other entertainments annually because, unlike Robert, he does not think 40k GD purses are appropriate. It’s somewhat of an anathema to him, really. Almsgiving and Faith tithes take up 60k GD, mostly because its expected of him. That leaves him with 65k GD remaining or about 81,250,000 USD, which isn’t insignificant but it makes him feel poor. Tywin is limited on the projects he could pursue with this amount of money, without going into the red for it. He currently does not have any significant debts but also doesn’t have a rainy day fund either. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra's lessons are set and her Tywin-approved courtship begins.

Chapter Seven

 

Lyarra’s first glimpse of Ser Jaime Lannister had her briefly forget that she was actually supposed to loathe her soulmate.

 

Their party had ridden through the gates in late evening when the sun had begun to set and cast everything below it in a warm glow. There had been neither pennants nor banners nor waving crowds to welcome them home, reminding Lyarra that she was a bride not to be boasted of by House Lannister, but even then, the wealth of the town took her breath away. The dark-haired bastard did everything in her power to maintain her poise, refusing to move her head in any direction other than straight into the lion embroidered on her goodfather’s back (to his credit, her piercing stare did not elicit any reaction at all from Lord Tywin). She would not show herself a wretched, ignorant savage, no matter that she hadn’t ever seen so many buildings wrought of heavy gray stone before or so many people congregated together. Even White Harbor took advantage of the plentiful timber in the North to build homes moving away from its central courtyard of white stone.

 

Lannisport was a bustling, well-ordered, vibrant city filled with smallfolk dressed in good cloth and slim through effort, not circumstance. The streets weren’t laid out in a gridlike fashion, having that imbalance of width and length that spoke of a city grown out naturally, but they were swept, of bearable odor and most impressively, claimed an oil lantern pole every half-street. A City Guard was necessary to patrol the streets, independent of the lord’s men, which hadn’t been needed in Winter Town, as small and minimally populated as it was. In truth, this was a town meant to be filled at any time, unlike her home, which primarily hosted ghosts until Winter came. Once again and entirely not of her own volition, Lyarra Snow was forced to admit that the lord that administered these lands wasn’t a fool. An emotion almost akin to admiration and respect stirred within Lyarra.

 

She reminded herself briskly that even the demons of Lady Stark’s faith were efficient and competent and that dispelled any lingering guilt for approving of her goodfather in any way. Lord Tywin was evil incarnate or at least a man her father distrusted and she would remind herself of that often.

 

Her steed didn’t pause it's gait as it trotted over a bridge encapsulating only a single wheelhouse’s length to a massive mountain structure. Here, Lyarra’s composure broke. She pushed her body backwards, not quite lying flat to peer up a range of sun-bleached reddish stone that exceeded the reach of her gaze. In the simplest terms, Lyarra composed a description of a squat rock settled into the middle of the ocean of a blocky shape with two cabin-shaped parts jutting out akin to lion’s paws. This was an entirely unfitting description of this wonderous structure.

 

_ ‘No wonder that it had not been successfully sieged by any House before,’  _ Lyarra marvelled. A soft chuckle reached her ears and promptly had the dark-haired girl straighten to deliver a politely bland smile to the perpetrator. “Have you anything to say, Ser Ferren?”

 

“I’m merely curious as to how you feel about Casterly Rock, my lady.”

 

“It is magnificent,” Lyarra admitted sincerely. More than she had ever expected, yes. Nothing that she had ever desired, true. But if not her own, than a treasure that her own son would rule one day. 

 

The man who would give her that son was standing in front of a cavern carved into the rock as a lion’s maw. Well-lit and guarded by a sturdy iron gate, it still led to a shiver that she would be swallowed alive by stone to enter her soulmate’s home. A party of individuals, mostly blonde-haired and green-eyed, awaited them but it was the Kingslayer that her eyes fell to first.

 

‘ _ Now  _ he _ is magnificent, _ ’ was Lyarra’s first thought. Tall and slender but with muscles that strained against the scarlet silk tunic clinging to his body. Black trousers and an equally dark cape brought out the slightest hint of gold on his skin and the beaten gold of his curled hair. A smile as cutting as the gilded longsword by his side was on a face of perfectly symmetrical features, high cheekbones, straight nose and sharp jaw. He was breathtaking and for a moment, Lyarra was overcome with a brush of glee that it was  _ her _ the Gods had plucked from Winterfell and brought to Casterly Rock.

 

The Gods had given her a handsome man. 

 

Then a pair of hollow, darkened emeralds caught her gaze. It was with maidenly virtue that Lyarra ducked her head. It was with a sense of survival that she bit down on her lips before they could twist sharply in disappointment. Her soulmark throbbed on her skin. The Gods had given her a broken man.

 

“Son.” Tywin Lannister addressed the dangerously handsome- or simply dangerous, her mind reminded,  _ Kingslayer _ \- man with a depth to his tone that could even be construed as pride. “I have brought you your soulmate, Lady Lyarra.”

 

_ ‘Snow _ ,’ the bastard mentally added. The title was enough to uplift her lips in a parody of a smile when the Kingslayer stepped forward to help her down. He spoke not but the hands to bring her down were sufficiently practiced not to jostle her overmuch. They were still a little shorter than her father’s grasp though, leading to a minute stumble that pushed her chest towards his, before he righted her. Rather swiftly and without a glance back, he left to approach his father.

 

‘ _ No interest in my body whatsoever _ ,’ Lyarra clinically noted. A wave of relief crashed over her. A husband without any interest in bedding whatsoever was even better than one that would seek his pleasure in ladies that made of a profession of the act. She needn’t even fear the pox with this one.

 

A great deal more cheerful, Lyarra moved to curtsy before the figures introduced to her. Ser Kevan Lannister assessed her with a distant but not unkind gaze, while his lady wife offered a small smile. Lady Genna Lannister was a woman whose stature and haughtier extended any of the force of presence her figure did not and Lyarra immediately assumed her to be the lady she would have to most impress. This was likely also the lady that her own presence would displace in her role one day, which wouldn’t make friendship any easier a task. Twin boys of gold hair barely older than Sansa looked at her with wide eyes and were introduced as Willem and Martyn respectively. Neither could be separated by look though Martyn at least offered a timid smile to her. A girl-child younger than them, around Bran’s age, was the first to offer her a chip-toothed grin, flyaway straw hair in desperate need of a comb. Lyarra’s fingers would tingle with the desire to brush those bangs back for her.

 

The last to be introduced was Lord Tyrion Lannister, who, as Jaime’s brother and Lord Tywin’s second son, should have been first met to her. Any inquiries to the breach of propriety were answered when a man half the size of Lyarra’s own slim figure, with hair of white-gold, mismatched eyes and features lacking all of the pleasant symmetry of his older brother, faced her. Unlike the Kingslayer though, it was with open and alert eyes that he welcomed her. There was no haze of alcohol to disguise a past regret to be wary of here.

 

Lyarra had time alone to offer a tremulous smile before the Kingslayer lay one gloved hand on the small of her back. Glancing over, she found an unyielding expression directed solely at the slowly opening gates. Well, if that were so…

 

The dark-haired girl took a deep breath, straightened her back and offered up a silent plea. ‘ _ May the Old Gods of the Forests, Streams and Stones guide this child past the hardships to await her. _ ’ With that said, Lyarra Snow stepped into the maw of the lion and the future that awaited her.

 

x

 

_ ‘If nothing else, I will not want for kindling.’ _

 

A richly appointed room had been set aside for her in the family wing. Half again as large as her own in Winterfell, it would serve until she was wed and moved to the Heir’s suite with her husband. Lyarra didn’t expect to become comfortable there, not because of the short time she would have claim to it, but because it was cluttered to high heaven. To a maiden used to Northern simplicity as she, all the purpose that the many spindly chairs, Myrish rugs, woven tapestries, painted figurines and other amenities had, was to keep the fire in her hearth nice and warm. There were even glass baubles on her dressing table! Baubles made of glass? Lyarra’s heart broke a little right there.

 

Not least amongst her room’s features, as her maid had sweetly informed her, was a hidden corridor leading directly to her Ser Jaime’s room next door. Why the cobbler’s daughter of six-and-ten thought Lyarra wanted to visit the man’s room or have  _ him _ visit her, she did not know. Wasn’t maidenly virtue supposed to even more coveted in the South than it was in the North? 

 

Thankfully after a single night of wide-eyed terror, Lyarra had realized that her future husband had no intention of visiting her whatsoever. That warmed her regard of the man considerably. Ser Jaime’s estimation as a husband was rising in her opinion day by day.

 

Unfortunately that was the only positive realization she had in the last sennight. The first was that Lyarra had made a very big mistake.

 

A Lannisport Lannister was her lady’s maid. A Lannisport Lannister handled her personal errands and washed her laundry. A Lannisport Lannister oversaw Frostbite’s health and training. Everywhere Lyarra turned, another blonde-haired, green-eyed spy of her father’s home was there to greet her with a smile just a tad short of condescension. She suddenly regretted that she had acquiesced to Lord Tywin’s plans without any disagreement. The dark-haired girl hadn’t wanted to earn his ire then but a little disapproval would have been well-worth the privacy of her own Northern maid at least. 

 

_ ‘I will simply have to write Father to bring a lady of Lady Stark’s choosing down to the Westerlands to be my lady’s maid. Tyana is… not unkind but I have equal chance of acquiring her loyalty as I do breaking the Rock.’ _

 

While Lyarra had made it a habit of never relying on her father’s wife for any important desire, she knew that this occasion was better left to the judgment of the Southron woman. So far, she had been correct in her estimation of the wariness, disdain, greed and curiosity that the servants bestowed upon her. She’d also been correct that Lyarra would be found wanting by her goodfamily, though she’d misjudged by which degree. Whether due to her bastard nature or the Westerlands unflinchingly high standards in the quality of their brides, Lyarra had not met Lady Genna’s approval.

 

Lyarra’s second realization was thus: Lady Genna was an unforgiving task mistress.

 

On her first day in Casterly Rock, Lyarra was led down by a servant to an even more ostentatious sitting room where the true Lady of the Rock waited with her goodsister. Genna had sat her down, politely offered her cake, studied her body with a decidedly uncomfortable intimacy and then began…

 

_ ‘Is interrogation too strong a word?’  _

 

Lyarra didn’t think so. A barrage of questions desired to know of her history, heritage, lessons, capabilities, knowledge, taste and so much more. Any claim that she made was verified in full immediately. The woman spoke High Valyrian fluently enough to nod approvingly at her own but then tutted over her grasp of tenses in written form. Her calligraphy was pronounced adequate, her manners unpolished but workable, her grasp of Westerlands’ politics ‘ _ less dismal than I had feared _ ’. When pressed into playing the harp, Lyarra was shameless enough to move straight to Rains of Castamere and Lady Genna softened enough to offer a smile. Any good will earned there was banished shortly thereafter when Willem Lannister was fetched to dance with her. 

 

_ ‘How was I to know the Westerlands prized grace and poise in their ladies?’  _

 

The North had different standards to measure the quality of a lady. Carving scrollwork, acceptable riding and a fine singing voice would have earnt her suitors enough in her home. Though she did learn that Westerlands skin was only slightly better at hiding flushed cheeks than her own Northern blood. Lyarra wasn’t one to take pleasure in discomforting young boys with her beauty but Willem Lannister was just so cute! She could barely resist cooing in the end when the red-faced boy gallantly bowed to her. His mother, the Lady Dorna, hadn’t even tried and Willem fled the room soon after.

 

When her tests were done, Lady Genna handed over the menus for the dinners planned for the next twenty days. It was the lady’s responsibility to handle such matters with the upper level servants and while her future aunt wouldn’t be surrendering that task any time soon, Lyarra was supposed to review the plans and spot no less than a dozen mistakes purposefully inserted in the papers. After deciding that cucumber soup three nights in a row was definitely a mistake, Lyarra found herself at a loss of where to start. Mostly she just poked at her papers, while listening in on the training regime being softly discussed between Lady Genna and Lady Dorna. Her duties as the future Lady of the Rock were extensive, including hosting dinners, handling servants, guiding fosterlings, overseeing castle stores and rent collections, almsgiving, settling disputes and much more.

 

This led very neatly to her third realization. Lyarra’s foremost duty as Ser Jaime’s wife was apparently to grant Lord  _ Tywin _ Lannister the Heir he so fiercely desired. Nothing had triggered a greater sense of mingled irony and despair then when her future goodfather looked up from his punishing daily workload, realized that Jaime and Lyarra hadn’t exchanged a single word in five days and commanded them find each other mutually tolerable. Not that it was said in such words but a note written in the Old Lion’s hand, similar to the script on the letter accepting an invitation her father never offered, implied so. It requested her presence for a walk in the garden the next evening. Apparently Lyarra had not been acting like a properly sinful bastard and seducing herself a trueborn lord to her bed.

 

_ ‘I am the bastard daughter of  _ Lord Eddard Stark _. What sort of seductions do they hope I possess?’ _

 

x 

 

Lyarra had been too nervous to take more than a bit of bread and that infamous cucumber soup for dinner. It was a shame. Lady Genna had planned for a delicious roasted quail atop steamed carrots and fresh peas tonight. Lyarra hadn’t ever had roasted quail before but it would be served in another five nights, so she took solace in that. Unless that was another mistake the dark-haired girl failed to spot, in which case this was another wrongdoing she placed at the feet of her soulmate.

 

Who was looking decidedly too handsome and composed, clad entirely in black, as she approached. Black was normally  _ her _ color but she had chosen to dress in Lannister red today, her pale skin in stark relief against the bloody crimson of the gown tidily placed in her garderobe. The cut was old-fashioned and Lyarra had had to alter it somewhat, tucking the bodice area in a bit while sewing the waist tighter around her and pulling up the hem by an inch, but it fit her well enough. A tiny part of her hoped she looked as good in that dress as Jaime Lannister did now, with the copper lanterns hung from the trees casting a soft radiance to his skin.

 

“Ser Jaime?” Her voice wavered a bit and while it wasn’t her intention, Lyarra didn’t mind that it did so. ‘ _ Modesty. Virtue. Bashfulness. Nothing that compels him to take your maidenhead until he absolutely needs to but leaves you alluring enough to keep as a trophy on his arm. A few social functions, a single son and you can build out your life as you please.’ _

 

To that extent, she had even requested Tyana paint her lips a bold red and darken her eyes with shadow. A touch of blush to her pale cheeks as well as a single chain of gold, her own jewelry from her father, resting on her neck. Arya’s voice morbidly pointed out that she’d given the Kingslayer the perfect handhold to strangle her by before her common sense told imaginary Arya to shut up.

 

The knight was studying the flowers with an air of boredom when her voice moved his head in her direction. When those catlike eyes landed on her, they widened with… was that dread?

 

“Mother?” The whisper past his lips shouldn’t have reached her ears but when it did, Lyarra inwardly smothered the coil of unease in her stomach. Mommy issues, how delightful. Then those emeralds sharpened and Ser Jaime strode closer, a fierce scowl on his face. Imaginary Sansa cheerfully noted that he stood a full head above her and looked equally handsome when furious. 

 

A hand clasped tightly around her wrist. “Where did you get those clothes?”

 

“They were in the garderobe in my room,” Lyarra answered calmly. Her wrist was held tightly, too tightly, in his grip but she refused to wince. “Are they displeasing to you, my lord?”

 

She judged her actions correct when his ire smoothed, the hand taken away and her own raised to a single kiss of welcome. Ser Jaime’s lips twisted afterwards in distaste and Lyarra felt a sudden urge to stick her tongue out at the man. No one was forcing him to kiss her hand. If he didn’t want to, then he shouldn’t do it. Neither of them desired to be here.

 

“They are not.” Ser Jaime’s voice was hoarse. In another case, it could have been a sign of desire. Her eyes flickered down briefly and she decided someone had just been yelled at thoroughly before this. 

 

_ ‘At least his teeth are clean, _ ’ Lyarra decided optimistically. ‘ _ Hoarse voices could come from smoking sourleaf all day too.’ _

 

Happy thoughts. She would have  _ all the happy thoughts.  _

 

The Kingslayer smirked. He had seen her eyes move. If her cheeks flushed a shade between ripe tomato and bruised cherry, than that was her own business. Lyarra tilted her chin up and nodded to the gardens. “Would you care to escort me around the gardens, my lord?”

 

“Not particularly.” The man didn’t bother to offer an arm as he walked forward. As expected, Lyarra followed one step behind. “I know a woman’s eyes, bastard. Stop playing lady and walk faster. The sooner we’re done with this, the sooner I may return to my business.”

 

_ ‘What business? You lost your position when you gained me.’  _ Her smile unwavering, she added. “My lord has long strides, as expected of a knight of his measure. I would appreciate it if he would slow down, so that his lady may follow him without difficulty.”

 

“I am no lord. Call me Jaime or Lannister or even Kingslayer,” was the sharp retort. 

 

“Ser Jaime,” Lyarra compromised. Her eyes flickered around the garden they were hurriedly traversing. Casterly Rock did not have many places of greenery but those that were set aside for the role blossomed with vibrant flowers and well-tended shrubbery. She imagined that the plants here refused to surrender to poor soil and limited sunlight out of the same sensible fear of Lord Tywin Lannister as everyone else here. When they’d almost reached the halfway point and a marble fountain was fast approaching, Lyarra spotted the first of the watchers she was certain had been ordered there.

 

_ ‘Appease Ser Jaime at the expense of his father or vice versa?’ _ Lyarra wondered. Well, when it was stated  _ that _ way… 

 

The dark-haired bastard reached out and  _ wrenched _ Jaime Lannister to a stop by forcefully wrapping her hand around his arm. Maneuvering it until they had interlocked arms, more a child’s gesture of solidarity than anything romantic, she dragged him to a convenient bench nearby the fountain. First, she forced him down and then she swallowed her nerves to drape herself against him. Those nerves failed her at the last moment, so she remained sitting close by instead, with their knees brushing. Lyarra turned and offered her brightest, most enthusiastic smile to her soulmate.

 

Jaime Lannister stared back at her like she was an idiot.

 

“Your father is watching us,” Lyarra stated simply. 

 

The bemused expression did not change. Now she wasn’t hoping for a sappy smile or anything alike to it but surely the Gods hadn’t saddled her with a pretty moron for a husband? “I’m not afraid of him.”

 

Yes. Yes, they did. Whatever Lyarra had done to deserve this, she was very, _ very _ sorry about it.

 

“I am,” the bastard responded with all sincerity. “A few minutes more, Ser Jaime. Speak.”

 

“Of what?” The bemusement was fading away to the sharp humor from before. Lyarra tucked one curl behind her ear and leaned forward in apparent eagerness. “Don’t move so close to me.”

 

Ser Jaime Lannister could kindly take a long walk off a short pier. Maybe even the ones below Casterly Rock’s main halls where the ships docked to hand over their supplies. Just to spite him, Lyarra scooted closer and notched her smile one shade brighter. Her knightly soulmate furrowed his nose as his much younger cousin did the last few days when Lady Dorna teased him for the dance lessons.

 

“Any topic should do. Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

Jaime Lannister considered that for a moment. “Alright. You’re wearing a dead woman’s clothes.”

 

Her eyelid twitched. She forced a light giggle from her lips anyway. “Something else, if you please.”

 

“I once caught a rat the size of a baby sheepdog in your room.”

 

Lyarra contemplated that for a second. Her soulmate was a bastard. At least they had that in common. “Were you purposefully trying to catch that rat?”

 

“Yes.” A boyish grin crossed the man’s face at her barely hidden disgust. “You’re judging me.”

 

“So much right now,” the Northern lady informed him. “ _ Why _ were you trying to catch a giant rat?”

 

“To win my family’s weekly rat fighting ring, of course.” 

 

Lyarra’s violet eyes widened to painful proportions, as she tried to keep her mouth from falling open. She was successful but the absurdity in her features was enough to lead Jaime Lannister’s sober face to break. He threw his head back and laughter, deep, mirthful, honest and  _ almost kind  _ rang from his lips. A pout crossed her own cheeks, blowing them out to comical size, as he continued to laugh. 

 

“Any other lies you’d care to tell me, Ser?”

 

“I can think of a few,” Ser Jaime replied, once his laughter had spluttered down. “There’s pirate treasure buried in this garden by mine Uncle Gerion. He secretly seduced the Black Pearl of Braavos’ granddaughter and…” 

 

Lyarra tolerantly sat by and smiled shyly as lie after scurrilous lie spilled from the lion knight’s lips. The emerald in his eyes had weakened in this light to a more welcoming shade, not yet jade but darker and dimmer than the leaf-green of new spring. If her smile had a hint of genuine warmth by when he ended his claims, the dark-haired girl didn’t notice it.

 

“Have we sat here long enough to assuage your concerns?”

 

“I think your father will be satisfied,” Lyarra answered, ready to stand. As the knight moved to do the same, on a whim, she reached out and laid a hand gently on his arm. “Tell me a truth now.”

 

Jaime Lannister stood still for a heartbeat, then leant directly towards her. Lyarra’s own body froze, heart beating rapidly, as he came closer. Was he about to kiss her? Did she want him to? A flip of her stomach and the dampness of her palms didn’t have an answer.

 

‘ _ I wish he had _ .’ Lyarra’s answer came when Ser Jaime merely brushed their noses together and she plummeted headfirst to disappointment. ‘ _ I really wish he had.’ _

 

Then the man answered her request. “You’re going to die before our first child is born.”

 

The blood in Lyarra’s veins frosted to ice, just enough to remind her of who she was. Lyarra Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, a she-wolf of the North. 

 

_ Keep your eyes up, child. You are a wolf and wolves do not fear hardship. _

 

Lyarra lifted dark violet eyes to her soulmate. Jaime Lannister dispassionately returned it with the catlike eyes of a predator. Eyes that glittered too beautifully, too faelike, too unnatural under the copper-tinted lights hung above them. What a handsome monster the Gods had given her.

 

‘ _ If I die,’ _ the dark-haired girl noted grimly,  _ ‘The Gods will ensure you follow.’ _

 

She pressed thinly tapered fingers against the crux of his elbow, a silent request for an arm that was soon offered to her. One hand tucked into her future husband’s arm as it ought to be, Lyarra raised to her feet. “You’re a most amusing man,  _ my lord _ .”

 

The remainder of their walk passed in silence and Lyarra returned to her room soon after. Not bothering to take off the dress of the deceased Lady Joanna Lannister, Lyarra dismissed Tyana with curt words and threw herself onto her bed. Underneath the pillows, her tears couldn’t be seen or heard by anyone else.

 

A book on the history of the Westerlands’ economy arrived in her room the next day. At least one Lannister lord was appreciating her efforts here.

 

x 

  
Lyarra’s Dress:  [ https://img.etsystatic.com/il/cda5ea/1256247369/il_340x270.1256247369_jicm.jpg?version=0 ](https://img.etsystatic.com/il/cda5ea/1256247369/il_340x270.1256247369_jicm.jpg?version=0)


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